


Psalms and Epitaphs

by tarysande



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Leandra's death, Hawke finds letters her parents wrote each other before fleeing Kirkwall. Still grieving, Hawke is caught up in the letters, and the glimpse at the love her parents shared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When You're Ready

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill this prompt: "After Leandra's death, F!Hawke is going through her things, and finds a stack of letters between Leandra and Malcolm while he was still in the Kirkwall Circle and she was a noble young lady. She is overcome by her parents love for each other, and risks they took to be together, and it spurs her to tell her potential LI how she really feels."
> 
> My story takes on a life of its own, of course, but still more or less adheres to the spirit of the original prompt. I think. When I posted it on the kmeme, I was writing daily (trying to stay within the blasted character limits!) and not allowing for too much editing, so it will probably be a little longer and hopefully a little more polished this time through.

Hawke kept to her room for three days.

Whatever Bodahn or Orana placed in front of her she ate without tasting. Bathing seemed unnecessary, so she didn’t do it. She slept a great deal, but her rest was plagued by nightmares.

Somehow even the nightmares were better than her reality upon waking.

She vaguely remembered speaking to Gamlen, and to Aveline. _You know where to find me if you want to talk about it. I understand if you don’t._ The particulars of these conversations were all but lost to her, though, dimmed by the fog of her grief. In many ways they seemed less real to her than her dreams.

If she remembered the conversations with Gamlen and Aveline, she’d have to remember what those conversations were _about_ , after all.

She’d have to remember white lilies and pools of blood and Alessa’s bleached hair and dead eyes. She’d have to remember what came next.

She’d have to remember crooked stitches and a madman’s smile and _you’ve always made me so proud_.

She couldn’t do it. So she stayed in her room, where food was brought to her and her bed was always at hand. She stayed in her room so she wouldn’t have to pass the doorway at the top of the staircase. From the safety of her room Hawke could imagine her mother downstairs, warming her hands by the fire, laughing, singing the little songs she always sang half under her breath and always out of tune.

On the fourth day, Bodahn brought her a note, though he looked almost reluctant to hand it over. The paper was fine, carrying the faintest smell of the chantry incense she always associated with Sebastian. Flipping open the seal—the red wax also reminiscent of the chantry—with the edge of her thumbnail, she unfolded the letter. It was petty of her, perhaps, but she steeled herself for platitudes, for a quote from the Chant, for empty words. Instead, in Sebastian’s clear, elegant script, she saw only a few heartfelt lines.

_When you’re ready, and not before. Whatever you need. I’m here. S._

She closed her eyes, swallowing against the sudden flood of emotion, fighting the tears threatening to fall.

She hadn’t cried yet. She couldn’t start now.

She knew if she started, she’d never stop.

Folding the letter once again into its precise thirds, she tucked it into her belt-pouch and rose. The bed called to her; she ignored it. Striding to the sideboard, she poured tepid water into a basin and splashed her face. It wasn’t quite the bath she needed, but it would do.

Hawke stood before the door for several minutes, breathing in and out, in and out, before raising her hand. Once her fingers closed around the handle she had to breathe through yet another attack of nerves, of grief. 

She jerked the door open.

The world didn’t end.

Keeping her eyes resolutely turned forward, she strode quickly toward the staircase. _Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look._ Holding tight to the banister, she stumbled down the steps. Her mabari raised his head, but she didn’t meet his eyes; they were too sad.

“Messere! H-how… how nice to see you. I wasn’t expecting… shall I… shall I get you some food? Some nice wine?”

Hawke shook her head. The lure of her bed was still too strong; she had to get away from it. Reaching into her pouch, she withdrew the letter. “Did he deliver this himself?”

“Ahh, yes, messere. He… he did wish to see you, but understood when I said you’d asked to be left alone.”

She didn’t remember that, but she supposed it must be true. So many things were blurry. She supposed she might have said any number of things she no longer remembered saying, and after Gamlen, she’d certainly hadn’t wanted to speak with anyone. He’d been so wounded. So _angry._

But then, she could hardly blame him for that.

“Sorry,” said Sandal, his voice low and mournful, his big eyes wide with unrestrained grief.

She couldn’t cry. She _couldn’t_.

Bodahn’s sharp gaze missed nothing. “You might still catch him, messere.”

“I… yes. I might.”

Puppy (named by Bethany; not her most creative moment) raised his head and whuffed, but she gestured for him to remain by the fire. The same fire in the same hearth. The same writing desk, with all the same blighted correspondence she had yet to deal with. Heart in her throat, she glanced across the room and saw someone had thought discard the vase of white lilies. Thank the Maker.

“Messere,” Bodahn said hesitantly, “would you like me to deal with… with her things? I would have asked before, but—if you’d rather, my boy and I can—”

“No!” Hawke snapped, too sharp, too harsh. She knew the dwarf meant well, meant to spare her, but still the rage boiled in her veins, made her dizzy. “No, just… just _leave it_. Leave everything.”

Bodahn bowed his head.

“Leave it,” she repeated, and anger did what grief could not: it pushed her toward the front door, and out into the world again. 

#

Blinking in the sudden sunlight, Hawke raised a hand to shade her eyes. It seemed wrong, somehow, to find the world so bright after… after everything. She wanted grey skies and pounding rain. She wanted to slog through mud. Indeed, the fine weather was nearly enough to drive her back to the safe darkness of her estate. Instead, she took one step and then a second, allowing her feet to take her toward the chantry. She pretended not to hear when one of her neighbors called out. She didn’t want greetings. She didn’t want condolences.

With her eyes turned resolutely forward, she nearly walked past Sebastian entirely. At the last moment, he turned and the sun caught the white enamel of his armor. It was enough to give her pause, enough to stop the endless circling thoughts of _should have been_ and _might have been_ and _Maker, I came too late_. He’d been kneeling, she saw, speaking with one of the urchin children who sometimes begged outside Hightown’s noble estates. As she watched, the child pocketed a glinting coin and darted away, disappearing into shadows with her prize.

Sebastian's eyes caught hers as he bent to brush the dirt from his knees, and she saw sorrow flit behind them. “Hawke.”

She nodded, suddenly at a loss. Folding her hands in front of her, she twisted her fingers together tightly because she didn’t know what else to do with them. It seemed foolish to have run immediately after him because he’d written her a one-line note. She was all too aware of her dirty hair and the clothes she ought to have changed. _Whatever you need_ , his note had said.

But he couldn’t give her what she wanted, what she needed. He couldn’t erase what had already been done.

Sebastian’s blue gaze missed nothing, and after only a moment’s hesitation he strode over to her and offered one arm. Uncomprehending, she only stared at it.

“Walk with me, Hawke?”

Again she nodded, slowly uncurling her fingers and looping one arm through his. Her hands shook. She was close enough now to smell the familiar incense clinging to his clothing, layered with the scents of his soap and his skin and the resin and oil he used on his bow. She felt something shift within her, bringing her once again dangerously close to tears, as he tucked her arm close to him.

“You needn’t speak, if you don’t wish to,” Sebastian continued, his tone too light and  conversational and _careful_. “It is good to see you.”

“I… got your note.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears, hollow and rough with disuse, but if he noticed, Sebastian did not remark upon it. 

She stopped abruptly, forcing Sebastian to stop with her, and causing someone behind them to curse under their breath when they nearly collided. Frowning, she glanced down at her feet. “I don’t know what to do. I want… I want to… I wish I could kill him all over again. I wish I could make it hurt more.” Her words tasted of bile, of hate. 

Sebastian merely nodded. “I understand.”

She tilted her chin up. Instead of the pity she dreaded, she saw only grim compassion. “You do.” It wasn’t a question. Breathing deeply, she continued, “It doesn’t seem quite real. I keep thinking she’s just… away. I have no idea where she’d have gone but—” Shaking her head, she said, “Just before I left, Bodahn asked me if I wanted him to go through her things, and I nearly took his head off. I can’t explain it. It was so sudden, so visceral.”

“He wants to make things easier for you.”

“I know.”

“He… doesn’t realize he _can’t._ ”

“I… I know. Just like I know I have to be the one to… to box up her clothing and throw away the detritus she’s collected. Not that there’s much of that, given how much we ran, and how suddenly we left Kirkwall. Still, I know it’s something _I_ have to do. Me, and no one else. And yet I don’t want to do it. I want to _kill_ something. I want to pound my fist into the face of some deserving bastard until I feel better.”

“There are always slavers on the Wounded Coast.”

Her lips twitched. “True enough.”

Inclining his head, he said, “My bow is yours if you require it.”

“It is tempting,” she replied, because it was. If she was lost in the heat and whirl and burn of battle, she wouldn’t have to think, wouldn’t have to _remember_. “But I—”

He said nothing. He didn’t have to. The concern and the genuine sorrow in his eyes spoke volumes.

Her throat felt tight. “I _need_ to go through her things. I feel like the longer I put it off, the harder it will be. I feel like… I feel like if I don’t do it soon, it won’t ever start feeling real.”

For several long moments Sebastian was silent. She watched the ghosts walk behind his eyes; she almost recognized their faces. She wondered if he saw similar phantoms in hers. Mother. Father. Carver. Bethany in the Circle and all but dead to her now. Very softly he said, “I understand that as well.”

Gently she extracted her arm from his. “But I wanted to thank you. For the note. It… just… thank you. It seemed really important that I thank you.”

Touching his fingers gently to the back of her hand, he said, “Forgive me the platitude, but it will become more bearable. In time.”

She nodded and turned back toward her own manor, thinking of the door at the top of the stairs and the darkened room behind it. “Sebastian?”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

A long pause. “In the afternoon.”

“Good,” she said. “We’ll shoot together.”

Even with the trials ahead, she walked away feeling lighter than she had in days.


	2. Letters and a Red Ribbon

If Bodahn was surprised to see her again so soon, he hid it admirably. A brief flash of alarm betrayed him before he greeted her warmly, as though she’d been gone a week and not half an hour. She couldn’t quite manage a smile, but she did attempt it.

Orana emerged from the kitchen and ducked into something too close to a curtsey for Hawke’s taste. Old habits. “May I bring you something, mistress?”

“Tea, if you would. I’ll… be upstairs.”

Bodahn and Orana exchanged a look. Hawke wished their concern weren’t quite so visible. It took a great deal of effort, but she managed to pull one corner of her lips up in the faintest semblance of smile. When she spoke, Orana sounded as though she were the one about to begin weeping. “I’ll bring the tea to your room as soon as it’s ready, mistress. I-I’ve made cinnamon buns. Still warm.”

“Cinnamon buns,” Sandal said, with genuine longing.

It would be so easy, she knew, to walk up the steps and past the closed door, straight to her own room. Her bed would be waiting. Then she thought of Sebastian’s careful concern and his fingertips against the skin of her hand, and she said, “To Mother’s room, please. And Bodahn?”

“Messere?”

“If you and Sandal wouldn’t mind bringing up some of those empty trunks from the cellars?”

She heard the dwarf’s breath catch. It was Sandal who said, “Okay. Trunks.”

Hawke nodded, moving toward the stairs. Laying one hand on the banister—the same hand Sebastian had touched so gently—she took a deep breath. One step. Two. Three. She heard the murmuring voices in the room below, but paid no attention to them. Her mother’s room awaited.

It took more than one deep breath—more than a dozen—before Hawke was able to turn the knob and push the door open. The room smelled of the lavender her mother had loved so much, and huge dried bunches of the flower stood propped in vases. Hawke put a hand to her breast, pressing against the bones until she could feel her heart beating beneath.

_One step. Two. Three._

Hawke glanced toward the bed, but Orana had already been in. The sheets were pulled taut and whatever hollow had once dented the pillow was long gone. Hawke was tempted to bury her face in the sheets, seeking her mother’s scent, some familiar ghost, but instead she turned toward the wardrobe. Her mother’s gowns hung within, also scented with lavender, the silks and velvets organized by color. Hawke ran her fingers along the fabric, stopping when she felt rough homespun. 

The rough offender was the dress her mother had worn on their flight from Lothering, with its fraying hem and darned holes and the patch on the skirt where the fabric had caught a rogue spark from Gamlen’s fire.

Somehow this garment more than any other made Hawke’s heart stutter. That her mother would keep such a thing for so many years, after so much hardship, when it represented such dark times… it was the dress she’d worn on that last terrible flight. The dress she’d worn when Carver lay bleeding in the dirt, already too far gone for Bethany to save. The dress she’d scrubbed clean again and again in Gamlen’s wretched hovel, because she had nothing else to wear. The dress she’d worn when the templars came for Bethany.

Hawke had thought it long gone, but here it was, tucked in amongst all the beautiful trappings the Lady Amell had worn.

Silks and satins and velvets Hawke could part with. The homespun would stay. Even if it only ever lived in her own closet, it would stay.

Kneeling, Hawke pushed aside her mother’s shoes— _One step. Two. Three. Walk to me, sweetling. Good girl. There’s my good girl_ —and pulled out a box. Even as she lifted the lid, Hawke half expected her mother to walk in, astonished and disappointed to find her daughter snooping. She nearly dropped the box altogether when the door _did_ open, but of course it was only Orana with tea and buns. The elf sent her a sympathetic look before leaving again, just as quickly.

Hawke blinked as she looked down into the box. Curled on the top of a pile of papers was a ribbon-wrapped curl of dark hair, long and lustrous and clearly belonging to Bethany. It was the papers she noticed, however. She recognized the script at once, though it had been many years since last she’d seen it, because it belonged to her father.

“Papa,” she whispered into the empty room, as her tea cooled beside her.

Hawke’s fingers trembled as she lifted the bundle of letters. She’d thought every last memento of their father gone with the house in Lothering. The stack of folded parchment was tied with a red ribbon, worn and well-used, but still vibrant and so very soft. Swallowing hard, she pulled one loose end and watched the bow unravel.

The topmost letter, the one written in her father’s unmistakable hand, was addressed to _Lady Leandra Amell_.

 _Lady Leandra Amell._  

Hawke blinked, startled. They were _early_ letters, then. She knew so little of her parents’ past, so little of the circumstances that led to the daughter of a prominent noble casting everything aside for a mage who would turn apostate for her. So much of their story was shrouded in mystery; she couldn’t help the tremor of excitement that ran the length of her spine as she imagined unearthing answers to her parents’ long-guarded secrets.

Setting the rest of the letters aside, Hawke took a fortifying sip of her tea and even managed to swallow a bite of one of Orana’s superlative cinnamon buns without her stomach rebelling—she hadn’t been able to eat much of anything at all since her mother’s… since her mother. The sweet pastry melted in her mouth, reminding her of happier days, of countless teatimes spent laughing and gossiping with her mother.

Then Hawke inhaled deeply, and unfolded the parchment. The sheet crackled ominously between her fingers, fragile with age. She released her held breath when it appeared the paper wouldn’t dissolve into ashes. Thank the Maker. She didn’t think she’d be able to bear the disappointment.

 

_Lady Leandra Amell,_

_Please do not be alarmed upon receipt of this letter, though we have not yet been introduced and I know I am breaking any number of rules by approaching you in this way. I would have spoken to you in person had I been able, but you were too well-watched at the de Launcet’s party. You do not know me, nor should you, for I am well below your station. It is only… you looked so sad yesterday, and so alone, and I wanted you to know you were_ seen _. If I could do anything to ease whatever pain brought such shadows to your eyes, I would do so without hesitation. Eyes as lovely as yours should be forever smiling, forever sparkling._

_If there is anything a concerned party might to ease your troubles, contrive to leave a message. There is a loose stone beneath the candles to the left of the statue of Andraste. Yours is a devout family, I know; if you can be alone anywhere, perhaps it is there. If I am mistaken and you were only suffering a moment of melancholy, please disregard this letter, and my misplaced involvement._

_Most Sincerely,_

_A Friend_

 

Hawke pondered the letter, rereading it several times. She’d always wondered how a mage might meet a noblewoman in a place like Kirkwall, but the words _de Launcet’s party_ seemed stranger than anything she’d ever imagined. Mages certainly didn’t attend soirees thrown by the nobility. Not here. Not _anywhere_.

Still, _I am well below your station_ seemed to hint at something.

Hawke frowned once more at the strange letter, and reached for the next on the stack. It was in her mother’s hand, and addressed to _My Concerned Friend_.

 

 _I must own your letter did startle me. It is_ _~~fortunate~~_ _miraculous I received it at all. My mother does not entirely trust me, I’m afraid (there was an incident with a visiting Orlesian; ~~I~~_ ~~_hated him passionately_~~ _did not get along with him). She now has the obnoxious habit of reading too much (all) of my correspondence._

 _You cannot know how much it meant to receive your words, though you are a stranger and we may never meet. I fear I was doing a poor job of masking my emotions, if they were read so very easily by a stranger._ ~~_Unfortunately, the source of my melancholy cannot be fixed_ _._~~

_Thank you for the compliment, serah, and for your kind words. I must ask, however, you send no more letters to the estate. My mother would never understand._

_L._

_P.S. It is my custom to visit the chantry weekly for confession. It is one of the few things my mother trusts me to do alone._

_  
_

__

Hawke smiled down at the letter—genuinely _smiled_ for the first time in days; it was her mother in every single word—and reached for the next.

Before Hawke could unfold the next letter, however, she was interrupted by a soft knock. Sandal and Bodahn entered, dragging a large trunk between them. Dropping the stack of letters back into the box of keepsakes, she pushed the little chest behind her. She couldn’t have said why it seemed so important for the letters to remain her secret, but it _was_. Bodahn only nodded a greeting, his eyes still pained and pitying, before disappearing back into the hallway.

Sandal remained a moment longer. She saw his eyes glance downward, toward the box peeking out from behind her, and then he shook his head slowly. “She was a nice lady.”

Hawke thought of the letter, of the crossed-out phrases and the cheeky parental insubordination, and nodded, lips still ever-so-slightly smiling. “She was, Sandal.”

Bodahn called out from the hallway, and Sandal left, casting a look of such exquisite sympathy over his shoulder it made Hawke’s breath catch. “I liked her.”

She found she didn’t immediately want to return to the letters—in a way they were like Orana’s cinnamon buns: a confection she wanted to savor slowly, lest she spoil herself. She left the keepsake box closed. The red ribbon had fallen to the ground, however, and this she retrieved. The silk felt like heaven between her fingers, and after a moment she wound it several times around her wrist and tied a simple knot.

Looking down at it gave her the strength she needed to rise again, and to begin sorting through the room in earnest. A necklace with a tiny Amell crest pendant she kept, immediately hanging it around her neck. It was something her mother had worn as long as Hawke could remember. Carver had nearly swallowed it once, as a child. The blighted idiot.

Bethany had probably put him up to it. She had a knack for getting Carver in trouble without ever once having the onus of blame placed on her. Hawke felt a pang of regret she’d not gone to Bethany herself; doubtless her sister was as broken by the loss of their mother as she. Maker. Bloody _Gamlen_ had gone. Hawke shuddered. Soon. She’d go soon, and Maker help the Knight-Commander or anyone else who tried to get in her way. Soon. She’d bring some token, some keepsake easily smuggled and easily hidden. Like the red ribbon. Like the pendant. Something to remember their mother by. Something to make Bethany smile.

Poor Bethany. Poor Carver.

Poor all of them, really.

Still, Hawke did not linger on the dark thoughts, the sad thoughts. Instead, she allowed the items in her mother’s room to take her on a journey of remembering happy things, better times. Their father’s complete and utter inability to do _anything_ in the kitchen without disaster ensuing. Carver’s bellowing laugh that always terrified the dog and sent him yelping under Hawke’s bed. Bethany’s patience as she _attempted_ to teach her sister the steps to all the various and sundry dances she’d learned so effortlessly from their mother. Their mother’s incomparable bread, slathered with butter made from their own cows and jam made from their own gardens.

Happy things. Better times.

This time when Orana called her to dinner—such _hesitation_ in her voice, as though she expected to once again be rebuffed—Hawke went down without complaint, and ate everything placed before her. She’d been working all afternoon, after all. She was hungry.

Maker, it felt good to be hungry again.

Later, just before falling asleep, Hawke remembered the letters, snug within the keepsake box, now safely in the bottom of her own wardrobe. On a sigh, she turned over, hugging her pillow tight.

Tomorrow. She’d read more tomorrow. She supposed her father _must_ have managed to be in the chantry at the same time as her mother; perhaps the letters would give her some clue.

That night she dreamed only of red ribbons and love stories; the nightmares left her in peace.


	3. What a Pair

When Hawke woke, the sunlight slanting across her bedroom floor told her most of the morning was already gone. Sitting upright, she rolled her neck until she felt the kinks ease.

Then, for the first time since the foundry, she stepped into the adjoining bathing chamber and ran herself a bath, hot as she could stand it, and even added scented oil for good measure. For good measure, she told herself firmly, and not at all because she remembered Sebastian would be coming to call. She didn’t quite believe herself. It took several moments to ease herself beneath the steaming water, but once she was submerged up to her neck she felt the last stiffness of sleep and sorrow slip away. The scent was floral but not too heavy on the lavender, so she was able to think of her mother without becoming entirely overwhelmed.

Thinking of her mother reminded her once again of the letters. She allowed herself a decadent soak before retreating back to her room. A tray of tea and toast sat on the table next to her chair by the fire, still steaming. Orana’s handiwork. Hawke couldn’t begin to understand how the elven girl always _knew_ , but her timing was impeccable. Always.

Hawke slathered a thick slice of bread with butter and jam, devoured it in four massive bites, and licked her fingers clean before searching out the keepsake box, and the next letter.

 

_L._

_I must say again what a strange and fortuitous coincidence it was running into you at the chantry. To own the truth, I had every intention of going to confession again at the same time this week in order to confess my many and sundry sins (and to continue our delightful conversation about politics, the perfection of cake—I know you insist yours is not the slightest bit perfect, but I’d like to draw my own conclusions on that score—and possible explanations for the Comte de Launcet’s body odor), but alas, some business requires my presence elsewhere. Whatever you imagine my disappointment to be, double it. Perhaps next week? Should your own sins be great enough to require yet another dose of absolution, of course._

_Did I mention how lovely it is when you smile? If not, forgive the oversight. I hope you are smiling now._

_MH._

 

Hawke imagined how her mother must have smiled upon the receipt of such a letter, and found her own lips echoing the gesture. It was strange, she thought, how one could feel happiness and pain in equal measures, all at the same time. Her father’s teasing words seemed so innocent, so sweet. And yet Hawke’s earliest memory was hiding under stacks of mildewed cloth and offal and rotting vegetables with her father’s hand tight around her mouth, staring into her mother’s wide, terrified eyes. Templars, she knew now. Then she’d only thought it a terrible game. It hadn’t been fun. She’d wanted it to stop. And her father had held her so close, his grip bordering on painful, because one whimper might have undone them all.

At one time her parents had flirted and laughed and written each other letters. Hawke supposed it had made all the running and hiding and fear worth it, but her heart still broke when she thought of it.

 

_M._

_I am scribbling this on a page torn from my prayerbook. Mother will have my head if she finds out; hopefully I am still alive by the time you read this. I was sorry not to see you today. Next week?_

_L._

_  
_

__

_M._

_I hope this business of yours is not too dangerous. I worry. I will come again next week._

_L._

__

 

_To my absent friend,_

_I hope all is well with you. It has been several weeks—indeed, more than a month—and I’ve heard nothing. Who collects these notes, if not you? I’d even risk asking about you, if I knew whom to ask. Write if you can._

_L._

 

Hawke found herself feeling her mother’s anxiety— _Where is he? What’s keeping him? Will he come?_ —and shook her head. Obviously he’d returned at some point. Indeed, the next letter she drew from the pile was once again written in his familiar, slanting script, but before she could read it— _Maker, Papa, where in the Void have you_ been _?_ —Bodahn knocked on her door and informed her Sebastian was awaiting her in the garden.

With a last longing look, she grabbed her bow and quiver—the bow was not coming to her as easily as her knife-skills had done—and left the letters to be enjoyed later.

After stepping silently into the garden, Hawke hid in the convenient shadow of the great oak her mother had so loved to sit beneath. As he so often did when he came to practice with her, Sebastian had forgone his usual armor in favor of simpler clothes. Even with her indifference to fashion she could see the fabric was fine and the garments well-made. She supposed it was a faint concession to his ongoing dilemma. Simple clothes, fine cloth. Priest or prince. Stay or go.

She knew only a little of the trials he’d faced in the three years between her massacre of the Flint Company and his discovery of the Harimann family’s guilt, when he was trying so desperately to drum up support for his claim. She knew he’d traveled the length and breadth of the Free Marches. She knew he’d been disappointed. Again and again disappointed. Part of the resistance might be laid at the feet of the Harimanns, but those disappointments, those closed doors and denials, had done a great deal of damage to the rightful prince of Starkhaven. Even she could see that. No matter how stoically he bore his lot.

After Johane Harimann was dead, Hawke had urged Sebastian to choose as his heart dictated. He’d remained in Kirkwall, of course, at the chantry. She supposed this meant adhering to his vows and persisting with the priesthood, and much as such a decision might disappoint her personally, her own broken heart mattered very little in the face of his happiness.

She loved him enough for that.

She just wasn’t certain he was actually _happy._

Hawke watched Sebastian aim and fire three arrows so rapidly she could only shake her head and admire his talent. Had it been her with bow in hand, she’d still have been attempting to accurately aim the first. Each one of Sebastian’s arrows lodged solidly in the bull’s-eye of her practice butt, only a hair’s breadth between the still-quivering fletching.

He notched another arrow and pulled the bowstring taut. Then, before releasing and without so much as twitching his head in her direction, he said, “I do know you’re there, Hawke. You might as well come out.”

She jumped, and then laughed, clear and rich and unmistakable. The laugh startled her more even than his words, and it was enough to bring him about to face her. A gentle smile curved his full lips, but even at a distance she could not mistake the lingering sorrow on his features, or the concern in his eyes. Still, she didn’t pretend to take the moment of levity back, didn’t try to undo it. She stepped out from her concealing—or not so concealing—shadow and tipped the point of her own bow in his direction.

“I should know better,” she remarked mildly. “You’re as much a rogue as I, for all your noble mien and regal upbringing.”

“Perhaps my upbringing was regal, but my actions too often were not. I did enough creeping about for a lifetime, I assure you.” He arched a reddish brow and his smile broadened. “And I daresay you’re nearly as noble as I, for all your own skulking. By blood, at least. The Amell line was ever a strong one, and respected.”

“Until we started sprouting mages at every turn, I suppose,” she replied with a strained lightness. She hadn’t yet considered what position her mother’s death put her in—it was fine to be the adventuresome daughter, righting wrongs and killing villains (with the occasional jaunt into naughtiness, perhaps), but she would be Lady of House Amell now, and all her mother’s concerns about carrying on the family name suddenly seemed that much weightier. When she spoke again, all trace of lightness had gone. “I am the last now.”

“Your sister—”

Hawke shook her head, silencing him. “Bethany is a mage. A Circle mage, now. Titles are denied her. Her family is denied her. And any child of hers would—and will—be taken.” She sighed heavily, fussing with her bowstring so she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze. “I don’t always agree with Anders, you know, but… but that does seem an ugly thing, taking one’s children away.”

Instead of the pity she feared, she glanced up she saw some bleak understanding on his face. “I believe you have the right of that, Hawke. And you know I understand the other well enough; I, too, am the last.”

“What a pair we make,” she said, the words falling flat and sad and hollow into the bright sunlight.

“Aye,” he echoed, “what a pair.”

Hawke saw Sebastian wince as turned back toward his practice. She wanted to say something, anything, but couldn’t find the words. When he spoke a moment later, his tone was once again measured and reserved and just a little distant. She always thought of it as his priest’s voice: the voice of a man expected to remain unbiased and nonjudgmental whilst he took confession or spoke of sins and sacrifice and atonement. Of course he spoke of none of these with her. He merely gestured toward the target with one hand, indicating she should take her place.

Swallowing hard, Hawke did as she was bade. Sebastian stood near but not too close, his clear gaze resting unblinking upon her weapon. Flustered, she drew an arrow from her quiver and brought it to the string. Her fingers trembled, and she glowered at them, as though glowering might make them see sense and stop behaving in such an embarrassing manner. She looked down the sight, trying to judge for wind—very little—and the brightness of the sun in her eyes. Just as she was about to release, she felt a feather light touch at her lower back, and instantly realized she’d been half-hunched in some bastardization of her usual dual-wielding crouch.

Heat infused her cheeks—mostly embarrassment, but not _entirely_ —and she glanced over her shoulder, letting the tension go slack, arrow still held between her fingers at the bowstring.

“Posture,” Sebastian said needlessly. “Ground yourself. If your hips are tilted, so your shot will be. And sweet Andraste, Hawke, don’t _stoop_ so.”

“Old habits,” she said, and it was her turn to wince.

If he noticed, Sebastian drew no attention to her shame. She found herself disproportionally relieved when he smiled instead. “Indeed.” He shook his head and she caught herself watching the way the sunlight glinted in his auburn hair, and the way fine crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. She liked those crinkles. She wished she saw them more often. “Hawke,” he said, with a faint tone of long-suffering, “are you listening?”

“No,” she admitted. “I am now.”

Sebastian chuckled. Maker, she wished she saw—heard—more of _that_ , too. Then with the merest brush of his fingertips, terribly prim and proper and ever so bloody _frustrating_ , he touched her hips. She straightened them. His hands ghosted to her waist, and to her back again, which she unbent. His sure hands then rested lightly on her shoulders, forcing them down from where she’d hunched them up around her ears.

“Maker, I’m a mess.” 

Sebastian chuckled again. “I’ve seen worse.”

“You have not.”

His eyes twinkled and a smirk—Maker, but she loved his blighted smirk most of all—transformed reserve into mirth. “Wee children for the most part, I grant you, but I have indeed seen worse.”

“Then you’re more patient even than I gave you credit for. I don’t know what possessed me to attempt this.”

It was a lie, of course. She knew precisely what had possessed her. She’d overheard a conversation between Sebastian and Isabela where he asked the pirate why she had never taken up the bow. _You could learn to shoot a bow, if you tried,_ he’d said, almost like an invitation. Isabela might have declined, but Hawke decided then and there _she’d_ take him up on it. He been surprised at first, but not averse to teaching her, and it meant time alone, precious time, so no matter how _bad_ she was at archery, she had no intention of giving it up so long as she kept her teacher.

The teacher who was once again scowling at her. “Shoulders, Hawke,” he admonished, tapping the right one more firmly. She resisted the urge to lean into it. “ _Shoulders_.”

Forcibly lowering her shoulders, she shot him an exaggerated, pathetic look. In return he lifted a skeptical brow and stepped away again, nodding toward the target. “Focus,” he reminded her, before folding his hands loosely behind his back.

She tried. She really did. And her first five shots _still_ landed wildly off target. He corrected her each time, fingers sliding over her, tweaking and guiding, and she didn’t want to admit—even to herself—perhaps she remained so obstinately bad at archery because she took entirely too much pleasure from the instruction of it.

Later, when she’d managed to lodge a few arrows in the general vicinity of the practice butt after a seemingly endless number of attempts, they retired to the cool comfort of her library. Sweat trickled down her back, tracing the curve of her spine, and her hair, heavy and in desperate need of a cut, clung to her brow and her nape in damp curls. Even Sebastian, who’d done far less physical work than she, looked warm, his fine shirt clinging to him. Enticingly, she thought. Then she admonished herself and poured him a glass of Orana’s fresh-made lemonade.

With one hand he took the glass from her, and with the other he reached up and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. She blinked at him, startled at the surprisingly intimate gesture, and his cheeks colored slightly. Then he pulled his hand back sharply, as though she’d burnt him, curling his fingers into a loose fist and hiding the offending limb behind his back.

She didn’t say anything about it. Nor did he. And after a moment they retired to separate chairs with their beverages, not quite looking at each other.

She said, “Thank you again for yesterday.”

“It was nothing—”

“It was something,” she retorted. “It was… Aveline came. After. She knew Mother, after all. No one else came. I haven’t seen anyone else. You—your note—reminded me I’m… I’m not alone. No matter how much I think I am. No matter what was taken from me when she was… when she… you know. So it _was_ something.”

Sebastian leaned forward, one elbow planted heavily on a knee as he regarded her. “You are not alone,” he insisted. “Perhaps the others have been reticent, perhaps they have wished to give you the space you require to grieve, but you are not alone. You need _never_ be alone, I swear.”

“Promises, promises,” she whispered, suddenly weary, the glass so very cold between her palms. So cold it hurt. One wrong move and it would slip to the ground, shattering. One wrong move and everything would break. And it was so easy to make wrong moves.

“Hawke. Hawke, you are _not_ alone. Not as long as I—”

“Until Elthina needs you. Or Starkhaven does. Whichever you decide on. Whichever you choose. Neither of which includes… please, Sebastian. Please. I watched my father die, and I was unable to do a thing to help him. I saw countless comrades fall the day of Loghain’s betrayal at Ostagar. I saw my brother crushed by an ogre’s fist. The templars took my sister. You _saw_ what that bastard did to Mother. I know what _alone_ is. And I know ‘never’ is a word that begs to be proven wrong. It spits in the faces of those who dare speak it with conviction. Please don’t tell me you’ll always be here for me when we both know it’s not true, it cannot be true. Please. I can’t bear it.”

If he’d looked burnt before, he appeared vitally _wounded_ now. Maker, she’d seen less hurt expressions on the faces of men she’d stabbed. The color his fleeting touch had brought to his cheeks was gone now, and he looked ashen under his tan. His fingers tightened around his own glass before he reached out and set the drink down. He then let his hands dangle limply as he stared at the ground between his feet. Once, twice he shook his head, as though silently arguing with himself—or with her. “Aye, Hawke,” he finally said. “I can promise you little enough, for all that. And perhaps you’re right to doubt even _those_ vows; the Grand Cleric would say you are.” Again he shook his head, neck still bent, eyes still fixed on the floor. “Still. Still. No one but the Maker may promise forever and have that promise be immutable. I may not always be at your side, perhaps, but you will always be in my thoughts. That I can promise without reservation. That I can promise and have it be true, no matter what else may come.”

“Sebastian…”

He rose suddenly, planting his hands on his knees and pushing himself upright. He didn’t meet her eyes. “The same time tomorrow, Hawke?”

“I… yes. The same time tomorrow.”

His gaze slid past hers, and she thought she saw another faint blush color his cheeks as he turned away. “Tomorrow, then.”

His voice was soft, almost tentative, nothing at all like his priest’s voice, or the angry prince’s tone she’d sometimes heard. Her breath caught. And then he was gone.

It was so bloody easy to make wrong moves.


	4. Best Interests

Orana seemed disappointed when Hawke said Sebastian wouldn’t be joining them for dinner as he so often did when they practiced. For half a moment, she almost expected the elf to run out after him. When dinner was served, Hawke could see why: Orana had outdone herself. Hawke forced herself to eat every bite, though she tasted little, and all the fine fare was wasted on her. Thankfully Sandal was vocal about his delight, and Bodahn only slightly less so.

As soon as she could make her excuses, Hawke did so, pretending to ignore the concerned looks that followed her from the room. Retreating to her bedchamber, she poured herself a hefty finger or three of aged Antivan brandy—Maker, one thing she was in no danger of running out of _ever_ —and returned to her chair by the fire and her parents’ letters.

 

_Dear L,_

_I have a genuine confession to make: I have been collecting your notes and not replying to them. I… convinced myself—and am still convinced, truthfully—our interaction was not in your best interests. Each time I checked, I found myself both hoping for and dreading a response. Ahh, I can so clearly imagine the look on your face. Please, allow me to explain before you crumple this paper in the disgust I know you must feel… and that, indeed, you have every_ right _to feel. I_ did _have business that took me away from Kirkwall for a time, that was no falsehood._

 _When I returned, I happened to see you in the marketplace; you did not see me, of that much I’m certain. You… you_ shone _in the sunlight, head thrown back in laughter. You were surrounded by friends, dressed in your silks and jewels, and in that moment you looked so happy. You looked as though you_ belonged _. In that world. In that life. My own life… my own life lacks laughter, too often. It certainly lacks belonging. For many reasons. I should so hate to see your light lost to any of them._

 _Still, I intended to meet you at the chantry once again, if only to tell you these things in person. Then I began to hear rumors you are soon to be engaged, and I did not want our… friendship to stir any trouble on that score. I know how the nobility loves a scandal; I know they love to_ invent _such scandals if true ones are not to hand. I did not wish to embroil you in such impropriety; you have done nothing to deserve it._

 _Perhaps it is foolishness on my part—tell me it’s foolishness on my part and I will never speak of it again—but I find myself_ drawn _to you as I’ve never felt drawn to anyone before. You are so kind, sweet, and clever I wish to the Maker I could be content with only your friendship. But I fear I cannot, and so I meant to extract myself from your life before… before anything else. Silently, as if we’d never met. As if I’d never sent that first blighted, ill-advised letter._

_And so I would have done if I’d not seen the distress on your face as you planted that last letter to me. I know I ought to have approached you then, but I… I was a coward. Even now I am a coward. It would be so much better for you if we never spoke again, I think._

_You must understand, I can offer you nothing. Less than nothing. Every comfort you’ve known, every beautiful thing you’ve owned, every aspect of your life thus far… I would be the destroyer of these things, and I cannot bring such ruin on you. You deserve so much more than that._

_Forgive me for worrying you. Forgive me for… everything. Be happy, Leandra._

_Yours, M_

 

Hawke immediately reached for her mother’s response, and was surprised to find it very short indeed.

 

 _Last I checked, I was perfectly capable of making my own decisions, Malcolm. About all sorts of things. Whom I speak to. Whom I associate with. ~~Whom I care for.~~ I do not wish to waste the paper or the ink necessary to outline the many and sundry ways you’ve behaved like _ _~~a complete and total arse~~ _ _a fool in this matter, but I should be more than happy to tell you in person. In fact, I should like nothing more. Perhaps you might consider letting me decide what is best for me? Perhaps you might consider listening to my concerns before manufacturing them yourself? I am going for a ride three days hence. I will endeavor to lose my chaperone. I know a path on the Wounded Coast; I’ll tie a red ribbon to mark it. Come, if you dare. Otherwise, I suppose our correspondence is at an end. L._

 

Hawke caught herself snickering as she refolded her mother’s terse missive. She knew that tone. Oh, she knew it well. It was the _what did I tell you about eating cookies and spoiling your dinner? Well, I’ll have you know I expect you to clean that plate_ tone. It was the _Carver Hawke, what in the Maker’s name possessed you to do such a thing to your sister?_ tone. It was the _one more word of backtalk out of you, little miss, and you’ll be washing dishes until the dawn of the next Age_ tone.

Maker, she’d do _anything_ to hear that tone again. Even if it was in the ever-frustrating _where do you think you’re going, have you no consideration for our reputation, why the Maker saw fit to test me with a daughter who risks her life at every turn, what am I going to do with you?_ tone.

Instead, she reached for the next letter. On a small scrap of paper that had been folded and folded into a tiny square—if the lingering creases were any indication—her father had written: _Thank you again for illustrating your point so… eloquently. I’ll not make the same mistake again._

The next several notes were short, more often than not simply listing directions—times, dates, places. Hawke allowed herself to imagine these stolen moments: hands touching briefly in the chantry gardens, a shared gaze in the Hightown marketplace, the infrequent meetings on the Wounded Coast. Hawke remembered the tender way her father had always looked at her mother, and wondered if he’d done so even then. She thought he must have. She imagined the way her mother’s smile could, indeed, glow, and how no one could be unhappy when that smile was turned upon them. Hawke supposed it wasn’t easy for them, always having to meet in secret, never knowing when the next assignation might be arranged, constantly fearing discovery, but she imagined their growing feelings were all the sweeter for it.

Occasionally one of the missives was an apology for missing a meeting: Lady Amell was too suspicious; business again took her father away from Kirkwall; a last minute dinner party; rain preventing a ride. Rendezvous were always rescheduled, however, and neither spoke of ending their relationship, no matter how challenging it became.

Of course her parents did not describe their encounters in their letters—they had no need to—but by the dates, by the increased frequency of their exchanges, and mostly by the way initials were replaced by terms of endearment, Hawke saw them fall in love. Against all odds. The fabric of their lives weaving ever more tightly together.

Part of her wished she’d known this side of her parents all along.

Folding the latest missive ( _Mother is watching me so closely these days, and I cannot get away. She says I look too happy. Those were her very words. Too happy. I fear even confession will be denied me this week. How I long to see you, love. Lilea promises she’ll smuggle this letter to you. Send something back with her, even if it’s only a word of love, or a kiss folded into a piece of paper._ ) Hawke ran a fingertip over the ribbon she’d tied around her own wrist. Part of her longed for what her parents had shared, even as she knew that longing for impossibility. It wasn’t status or a disapproving family or even magic keeping Hawke from the one she loved, after all.

In an attempt to keep melancholy at bay, Hawke unfolded the next letter. But instead of a word of love or a kiss, her father had scrawled: _Tell me it’s not true, Leandra. Please, tell me it’s not true_.

“Tell him what’s not true?” Hawke asked aloud, her troubles momentarily forgotten as her words echoed in the silence of her bedchamber. “Tell him what’s not true, Mother?”

The next letter provided the answer, of course. _She told me at dinner, Malcolm, not half an hour after I sent Lilea with my note. It’s already been announced, I see, since you’ve heard. I can assure you I wasn’t consulted. Maker, she’s already planned a bloody_ party _. I don’t think she’ll let me out of her sight until then. Oh, sweet Andraste, what are we going to do?_

 _Flee, if you’ll come. If you’ll have me,_ was her father’s response.

Hawke blinked blearily, wondering how the Circle and Maurevar Carver came into it. Reluctantly, she rose and headed for her bed. Time enough tomorrow, when she was not drifting off between sentences and yawning between every word.


	5. An Invitation

When she went down to break her fast the next morning, she was intercepted by Bodahn bearing a letter and a troubled expression. With furrowed brow, she waved it off and said, “I’ll get to it if you leave it with the others. I know I’ve let things pile up, but I promise it’s the first thing I intend to attend to after breakfast—”

“Ahh, forgive me, messere, but the messenger was adamant I put it in your hands myself. Soon as possible, he said. You know the official-types. Always in a hurry. Always need things done yesterday.” 

“Mmm. And everything needs to be attended to personally, yes. Who’s it from?”

He flipped the envelope over, revealing the Viscount’s seal. Hawke swallowed a sigh of dismay.

“What does he want _now_?” she muttered, knowing it didn’t matter. She already felt the familiar pull of obligation. She wished she knew how to turn that compulsion _off_ , but until then… she’d help. She’d always help. Especially if it meant keeping Kirkwall safe. She had every reason to question the city’s safety after… after. “Something to do with the blighted Qunari, I suppose. Perhaps his son’s run off again. Perhaps he just needs someone to weed his bloody garden.”

The dwarf’s swallow was audible. “It could be he only wishes to… offer his condolences?”

Of course. Condolences. Flicking the seal open with her thumbnail, she found Bodahn wasn’t far off. He’d certainly been closer with his guess than she with hers.

On expensive, heavy paper, inscribed by an expert hand—not the Viscount’s, though he had taken the time to personally scrawl his signature at the bottom—was an invitation. One she shouldn’t refuse, no matter how much she might wish to.

”An invitation you _cannot_ refuse, darling,” her mother would have chided, in a tone _very similar_ to the _don’t spoil your appetite before dinner_ tone.

An invitation Hawke very much _wanted_ to refuse, in spite of it all.

A party. A presentation. _Her_ presentation, in point of fact. To Kirkwall’s nobility. As the new Lady of House Amell. “Maker’s _balls_ ,” she groaned.

“Messere?”

“Bodahn,” she said pleadingly, “ _dear_ Bodahn, who always knows where to find the unfindable and how to procure the unprocurable, I… may need a favor.” 

The dwarf raised his eyebrows at this, and she could see him attempting to puzzle out her meaning. His years as a merchant had made him particularly good at knowing what a customer might want—and at _getting_ whatever that desired thing might be. He mightn’t be selling things now, but he still anticipated her needs with alarming regularity. She saved him the trouble of guessing by gesturing with the invitation. He plucked it from her fingers and a faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Either you want my help fleeing the city in secret, or you need appropriate attire, messere?”

“Much as I’d like the choose the former, I’m afraid the latter is, indeed, the least of what I need, but it’s a place to start.” She ran her hand down the sleeve of the dress she often wore around home; it was looking a little threadbare, and a thread dangled from her cuff. Embarrassing. 

 _And it’s terribly out of fashion, sweetheart,_ she imagined her mother saying. _You need something to play up the darkness of your hair, and the color in your cheeks. Oh, I know just the thing…_ But Hawke _didn’t_ know just the thing. She didn’t know the _first_ thing. She supposed she had nice enough _armor_ she might wear, but—

“I don’t believe it’s an event for armor, messere,” Bodahn said, startling her.

“I didn’t realize I said that out loud.”

The dwarf chuckled. “You didn’t have to. I’ll see what I can do. Are you certain you don’t want to—?”

She gaped at him, horrified. “Don’t ask me to go shopping, Bodahn. Anything but that. Please.”

“Indeed. Fate worse than death. I can see that on your face as well. Very well, messere. I will do what I can.”

She very nearly hugged him. Instead, she clapped him lightly on the shoulder; less embarrassing for all parties, but no less appreciative a gesture. “It doesn’t have to be too… fancy,” she insisted, more for her own sake than his. “There isn’t much _time_ after all, and—”

He smiled up at her, shaking his head. “Begging your pardon, messere, but it _does_ have to be fancy. And coin buys speed. Don’t you worry. Don’t you worry one bit. I'll see to everything.”

As he walked away, however, she realized she _was_ worried. She could face slavers and assassins and Tal-Vashoth without blinking, but the idea of standing alone in front— _in front!_ —of a room filled to bursting with Kirkwall’s nobility? After a whole life spent dodging just that kind of single-minded focus and attention? 

She shuddered. 

And then her stomach growled. Loudly. 

Breakfast first. She could worry better on a full stomach.

# 

Ignoring her bow in favor of her blades, Hawke pushed herself through round after round of training exercises, waiting for Sebastian to arrive. She debated asking him about her… whatever it was. Party. Presentation. She almost wished he could attend with her, keep her company—he could help keep track of all the bloody names and titles, because Maker knew she wouldn’t be able to do it—but she suspected his vows would make such a thing impossible. Bloody vows. When she finally stopped, dripping sweat, she noticed the sun was well past its zenith. She’d lost hours to her training, which wasn’t odd in and of itself, but she’d expected Sebastian to interrupt her. That he hadn’t was troubling. Just as she turned toward the house to see if he’d sent word of a delay, the door opened.

Her smile faded when she saw Bodahn in the doorway, holding yet another letter. She knew before she reached for it that it would be from Sebastian.

She wasn’t wrong. One of the sisters ministering to the ill in Darktown had brought sickness back to the chantry with her. Sebastian had woken under the weather and didn’t want to risk infecting her.

She believed him, of course she did, but given the way they’d parted the day before, she couldn’t help feeling perhaps he’d jumped at the excuse to avoid her. Just a little. Just for a couple of days.

Perhaps he wasn’t wrong to want to.

Hawke’s pang of disappointment— _don’t go there, nothing good will come of it_ —was interrupted by Varric’s familiar voice calling from within the house. She hoped he had something for her to _do_. A distraction. Preferably one with villains to kill.

#

Three days later, covered in mud and blood and slime, Hawke returned to her silent house. Her stomach flipped unpleasantly when she expected, just for a moment, to see her mother and _didn’t_. She did, however, see the familiar line of Sebastian’s back, half-bent over her writing desk. Puppy, sitting at Sebastian’s feet, lifted his head and barked a brief greeting. Sebastian turned, his smile of greeting fading into a horrified expression.

“What, this?” she remarked, gesturing theatrically at her filthy form. “Nothing a week in the bath won’t cure.”

“I’m only surprised I didn’t smell you as you entered,” he replied. “Forgive the intrusion. Bodahn said I could leave a letter—he had no idea when you’d be back.”

“Just this minute, as it happens. You missed out. Varric had Fenris, Merrill and I hunting down disgusting ingredients for an interested party. Mostly I think it was a distraction. Unsurprisingly, it worked.”

“And the… blood? That _is_ blood, is it not?”

“One layer, yes. Slavers. Always bloody slavers on the Wounded Coast, right?”

His smile turned wry. “Aye, and you sound disappointed.” 

“You know I love to put slavers in their place.”

“The ground?”

She huffed a brief laugh. “And you? Feeling better?”

“Recovering well.” He still sounded a little congested. It made his accent stronger, somehow. She was scouring her mind for some question she could ask that would require a long answer—all the better to admire the brogue—when he crumpled the paper he’d been writing on and tossed it into the hearth. Then, for some inexplicable reason, he blushed and scrubbed at the back of his neck with one hand. “Forgive me, Hawke. I… didn’t mean to pry, but when I went for paper I saw the Viscount’s invitation open on your desk.”

She groaned. “Maker, _that_ bloody thing. I’d almost forgotten. Knew I should’ve stayed on the Coast a few days more.”

“It’s… tomorrow?” Sebastian still looked wildly uncomfortable. It was strange, really, given his usual composure. “Will you… is Fenris escorting you?”

This time her laugh wasn’t merely a huff. “Maker’s breath, Sebastian, _no_. I’d never do that to him.”

Sebastian nodded, and a tiny bit of the discomfort eased. “Varric, then? He’s well-respected—”

Hawke arched an eyebrow. “No. And before you get around to it, Anders isn’t coming with me, either.” She sighed. “Honestly, it’s just a… thing. One night, right? I was wondering if you might—”

He interrupted her before she could finish her sentence with _tell me what to expect_ , saying, “I’d be honored, Hawke.”

“Oh,” she said, blinking, “oh, I… I thought you… you know, your vows and…”

The look he sent her was strange and sad and a little pained. “It’s a formal dinner, Hawke. I daresay what vows remain will go unbroken.”

She nodded, a little perplexed both by his expression and the words _what vows remain_ , but unable help the frisson of excitement. Suddenly tomorrow didn’t seem so bad after all.


	6. In Hope

Though her efforts on the Coast had exhausted her—she never slept well tucked into a bedroll on the hard ground, and satisfying as it was, killing slavers was still hard work—Hawke did not immediately fall into bed once Sebastian had gone. (She wasn’t entirely certain how to view his exuberant acceptance of her not-quite-invitation, so she chose to ignore it. For the time being. Maker, she hoped Bodahn managed to find a pretty dress.) After a long bath, she padded down to the silent kitchen, made herself a pot of tea liberally laced with yet more of the Antivan brandy, and retired to the library, parental letters in hand.

The ink of her mother’s next missive was blotched with what Hawke could only imagine were tear stains. Even the handwriting was shaky, weak; the words so sad Hawke felt her heart breaking, even though she knew how the story ended.

 

 _I really thought you’d come. I know it doesn’t change anything, and please believe I’m ready to go when you are, but I thought… I thought I wouldn’t have to do this part. Pretend. My parents smiled at me as they presented my future husband—they smiled like they were so_ happy _, Malcolm, and all I could think was how disappointed they’d be to find me gone. Of course that changes nothing. If they… They knew I didn’t want to marry him. They_ knew _. And they still arranged it. So I have no regrets on that score. But I do regret the necessary deception. The party was a resounding success, or so my mother told me afterward. She seemed so proud. We have to run, Malcolm. We have to go soon. I don’t know how—my brother suspects something, I think. He keeps making comments, strange comments. I think… Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know. But we have to leave. We have to leave soon, or it will be too late._

 

Hawke was surprised when the next letter was in an unfamiliar hand, the ink harsh and stark against the white paper, the strokes hard and heavily slanted. At first she believed its inclusion must be a mistake, but as soon as she unfolded it and allowed her eyes to scan the words, she realized how very wrong she was.

 

_To: Leandra Amell_

_From: The Crimson Oars_

_My lady, it is with regret I must inform you Malcolm Hawke will be unable to keep his appointment. In the course of a mission, he saved the life of our leader, but was captured in the process. Gratitude bids me write this letter, but I fear it will bring you only sorrow._

_He was a good man, but it would be easier, perhaps, if you thought him dead. The Gallows does not give up its prisoners easily._

 

If her mother had sent letters either to the Crimson Oars or to the Gallows, no record of them remained. The next letter was even more tear-streaked, and within a line or two, Hawke realized it had never been sent at all.

 

 _Oh Malcolm, love, I have tried everything. I don’t even know why I’m writing this, except to make myself feel better. I know I cannot send it to you, not where you are now. I have appealed to every sympathetic sister at the chantry, I have made every inquiry I felt it safe to make, I have_ tried and tried _, but no one has news of you, and no one will agree to bring you a message. I saw a Crimson Oars mercenary but he pretended not to recognize your name. I saw pity on his face, though, Malcolm, and I knew. I_ knew _. They’ve given up on you. They’ve all given up on you. I haven’t. I won’t._

_There was one templar… but no, then he was called away by one of the others, and the moment was gone. I will try again, the next time I am able. If I can find him. I think his name was Carver. Ser… something Carver. I heard them call his name from within. It started with an M, I think. Perhaps he was only about to tell me to give up, to forget, to move on. But there was pity in his eyes, and sorrow, and regret, and I thought… just for a moment, I thought…_

_Oh, how I wish I could see you. Just for a minute. I can’t bear thinking of what is happening to you in there; I can imagine it is doubly unpleasant because you escaped the Circle once. My heart breaks when I think of it, and yet… and yet it must be so much worse for you, my love. My home is a prison—my life is a prison—but it is a comfortable one. Nothing like the one that holds you._

_I love you. Now. Always. I love you._

_Your Leandra_

 

Hawke found herself picturing her young mother wandering these very halls, wringing her hands and hoping—longing—for the impossible, even while she wracked her brain for something, _anything_ she might _do_. She wondered if her mother had ever been tempted to give up, to lose hope… but even as she thought the words, she realized of course she hadn’t. Helpless as she might have felt, her mother would have fought _hopelessness_ with every fiber of her being. She always had. Time and time again while Hawke was growing up, she had seen the deep reserves of her mother’s faith—in the Maker, yes, perhaps, but also in love. In family. In her husband. In hope.

It was why the hopelessness after Carver’s death had been so terrifying; Hawke had never before seen its like. Not when they spent years on the run, hiding and pretending and never allowing themselves to grow too fond of a place. Not even when Father died. Her mother had been sad then, and she’d mourned him deeply, but she hadn’t sat silent and suffering the way she’d done on the ship to Kirkwall. Carver’s death had been too sudden, too unnecessary, too _hard_. Too ugly. And hopelessness was a terrible poison when it was allowed to spread.

They’d none of them ever recovered properly from it.

Her throat felt oddly tight, and as she reached for the next letter on the pile, she realized her cheeks were damp. Her own tears still frightened her; she felt certain they’d never stop once she allowed them to start. So, swallowing hard, she inhaled deeply, slowly, and brushed her cheek against her shoulder to dry the dampness. Later. Later.

The next missive had been written in yet _another_ unfamiliar hand, though Hawke was startled to recognize the red wax of the broken seal. She’d have put money on it originating in the chantry; it looked exactly like the wax Sebastian always used. She caught herself raising the paper to her face, as if hoping to catch a ghost of incense, even though of course the letter was far too old for any scent to remain.

 

_Lady Leandra Amell,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. We have not met—or, rather, I believe we met briefly, but were not introduced. An acquaintance asked me to pass along a message. He wishes you to know he is as well as can be expected, and begs you waste no time worrying about his welfare. For my part, I’m afraid ‘as well as can be expected’ is a misleading phrase. I find it troubling, deeply troubling, the way he is treated. I cannot see how it serves the Maker to mistreat a man—a good man—the way he is mistreated. Indeed, time and again I have seen the core of goodness in him, in the way he protects those weaker than himself, in the way he speaks for those too frightened to raise their voices. There is goodness in the turn of his countenance when he speaks of you, my lady. I have seen too much darkness; it does my heart good to see such warmth, such faith, even if my superiors might think it misguided. In return, he is pushed by those who would see him break. They_ want _him to break, so he might live up to the ideas they have already mistakenly formed. They want every apostate to be a maleficar; they go to great ends to see it done. He does not oblige them. It vexes them that he does not, and that, indeed, no matter how they needle and prod, he does not falter. Forgive me. I should not trouble you with my dark thoughts, and our mutual friend would not thank me for it. I was meant only to tell you he thinks of you even now, and presses you to find what happiness you can, even if it means forgetting him._

_I will endeavor to put this message in your hand personally, for fear it might otherwise go astray. Our friend tells me you are often seen at the chantry for mid-week confession; hopefully this has not changed in past weeks. Please do not attempt to send word through official channels—all correspondence is read, and nothing addressed to one of our charges makes it through to them. They already torment him enough. The attention of a noblewoman will feed their fires; they will call you thrall, and punish him._

_Words are just words, I know, but for what it’s worth, you may trust mine. You may trust me. I will do what I can. I fear it will not be enough. For any of us._

_In Faith,_

_Maurevar Carver_

 

Though the morning loomed ahead of her—bringing with it all the trials and tribulations the new day would hold—Hawke could not put the letters down. For another month her parents passed notes through the intermediary of Maurevar Carver. The templar wrote no more messages himself, but Hawke pictured him clearly, doing what he could _because_ he could, and because he believed it _right_. She had no reason to do it, but she imagined some older, wiser version of her brother. Her poor brother who would never get the chance to be older and wiser, now. So many nevers. So many could haves. So many stories ended before their time. Too many.

As time passed and the letters grew more intimate, Hawke found herself skimming the words… not because they weren’t beautiful—they were: _I miss the feel of your hand in mine. I still remember the promises you whispered in my ear, your voice like a song. My mouth longs for yours; some days it is all I can do to keep from screaming. Sometimes in the night I_ —but because she couldn’t help feeling she was invading her parents’ privacy. 

 

 _They put me in solitary confinement for three days,_ her father wrote, _but I closed my eyes and remembered the sun in your hair the last time we escaped to the Coast. I remembered your kisses, soft and not so soft, teeth and tongue and lips, taking and giving and making me beg. Maker, your lips. I remembered your body under mine, the way you cried out my name, and how I felt complete afterward. Cliche, perhaps, but true. So true. It was the happiest I’d ever been. It seems impossible to believe it was more than two months ago, now; time moves so strangely here. Still, I was smiling when Carver fetched me from the prison; I think if it had been any other templar, I’d have been locked up again for having the gall to remain unbroken_.

 

Then, toward the end of the stack, her mother’s one-line note, scrawled in an uneven hand: _The wedding is in two weeks._

Hawke forced herself to exhale, not having realized she’d been holding her breath.

And then, after that, the last note: _C and I have a plan. Be ready. Pray it works. I love you. M._

Hawke knew what happened next, of course. Her father had delighted in telling the story, each time adding more details. He’d been such a good storyteller. He and Varric would have gotten along famously. When she thought of those stories now, however, she realized her mother had never quite echoed her father’s exuberance. Leandra had smiled and laughed in all the right places, but the tale of the dashing apostate infiltrating the masked ball to steal his love away from the marriage she hadn’t asked for and didn’t want had also been the story of a girl losing the only family, the only home, she’d ever known. Malcolm Hawke had given Leandra a new family, and a new home, but Hawke suspected no matter how much she adored the new, her mother always mourned loss of the old, just a little.

Hawke had seen it as soon as they returned to Kirkwall. The ghost of the girl who’d been Leandra Amell haunted her mother’s eyes, longing for the old home, mourning the parents she’d never see again. Both lives, old and new, stolen—by choice, by fate—and a third attempt at building something new was so very, very hard. Almost insurmountable. And yet her mother had tried. Oh, how she’d tried. And it had led to white lilies and black stitches and a broken body on the foundry floor.

“Oh, Mother,” Hawke whispered, only then, _only then_ realizing how very, very strong her mother had always been. So strong she’d made it look easy, effortless. “Oh, Mama.”

Then she put her face in her hands and began to cry. For her mother. For her father and brother. For her sister. She wept for the family and the home she’d—they’d—lost.

This time she did not try to stop herself. She did not attempt to bury the grief welling within her like a spring. She did not dry her tears as they fell. She cried because she, like her mother, did not know what to make of this new life, and because she’d taken the old for granted _so many times_. So many things undone. So many things unsaid.

After a moment she felt something nudge her arm, and she looked down into her mabari’s soulful eyes. Puppy whined under his breath and she sank to the ground beside him, wrapping her arms tight around his neck. 

And she wept.


	7. Thirsty Work

“Andraste’s dimpled _arse_ , I have my work cut out for me.”

Hawke groaned, blinking her gritty eyes. Her mabari pillow wriggled out from beneath her head and gave a happy little bark, prancing about in a circle before bounding to where Isabela stood silhouetted in the doorway, one hand pinching the bridge of her nose and the other on her cocked hip.

“What are you—?” Hawke began, before realizing she had more pressing questions, like _what in the Maker’s name am I doing sleeping on the library floor?_ Then, of course, she remembered, and the sore eyes and fuzzy head began to make all too much sense.

Isabela finished giving the hound a scratch behind the ears before sauntering across the room and offering Hawke a hand up, which she accepted gratefully. Her back creaked its protest at having been made to rest on stone. “I’m here to get you… presentable, Hawke.”

Hawke didn’t quite manage to swallow her snicker. “You know a lot about fancy dinner parties for the newly noble, do you?”

The pirate reached up to pat Hawke’s cheek lightly. “You’d be surprised, sweet thing. Now, into the bath with you. Merrill’s bringing—”

“Flowers!” Came the elf’s voice from the doorway. “Only I didn’t know which ones you liked best, Hawke, so I brought roses and daisies and even a few sprigs of Andraste’s Grace. No lilies, though.” Merrill lowered her eyes, clutching the vast bouquet (doubtless pilfered from the gardens of the very nobles Hawke was meant to be presented to later) close to her breast. “I didn’t think you’d like lilies.”

Isabela sent a fond smile toward the elf, but Hawke didn’t miss the echo of sympathy in her eyes. “They’re perfect, kitten. I don’t suppose you’d run along to the kitchen and have them put in some water? See if Orana won’t rustle up some breakfast. Lunch. Whatever meal we’re meant to eat at this Maker-forsaken time of day.”

Hawke’s stomach growled at the mention of food. Isabela and Merrill exchanged a quick look, and the elf nodded, darting away, trailing blossoms.

Hawke paused to gather up the letters, tucking them behind some books on the shelf. If Isabela noticed, she said nothing, and Hawke found herself glad of the pirate’s silence. Then she headed toward the door, stopping to pick up one of Merrill’s fallen blooms. It was Andraste’s Grace, small and white and perfect, and the fragrance reminded her immediately and overwhelmingly of Lothering. Smiling, she inhaled deeply, remembering braiding tiny white flowers into her sister’s dark hair. They’d caught Carver collecting flowers once, but when they’d giggled and pointed he’d thrown the entire bouquet on the ground and stomped on it. Hawke wondered now who those flowers had been meant for. 

Isabela ushered Hawke out of the library and up the stairs. “They’re for your hair.”

“They’re… what?”

The pirate chuckled. “The flowers. They’re not… you know. Sad. They’re for your hair.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Hawke arched an eyebrow. “All of them?”

“Merrill’s nothing if not enthusiastic.” Isabela sighed. “She was worried.”

“I’m… I’m fine—”

“We were all worried, sweet thing.” The pirate lifted one shoulder in a vaguely uncomfortable shrug. “Look. We… we’ve missed you at The Hanged Man.”

Hawke blinked and caught her foot on the stairs, stumbling forward. Isabela reached out and pulled her back before she hit her face on the step. “Don’t make my job any harder than it is already, Hawke. The last thing you need is a black eye.”

“I—sorry. And I… I’m… about how I’ve been…”

Isabela sighed again, glancing heavenward. “Everyone does grief differently, kitten. Some people need to be distracted. Some need to be coddled. Some need to be alone. Just… whatever you need? We’re here for you. That’s all I’m saying. And don’t you dare even _think_ about going weepy on me with those big blue eyes of yours. Your face is already a mess.”

Instead of weeping, though, Hawke laughed. The sound caught her unawares, and her hand was halfway to covering her mouth before she realized she _wanted_ to laugh. Isabela’s exasperation—that _she_ of all people would be sent to play lady’s maid—was _funny_. It deserved the laugh. So she let her hand fall back to her side, and she _laughed_.

“Hysterics,” Isabela muttered, nudging Hawke up the stairs once more. “Yes. Perfect.”

#

Isabela wouldn’t let Hawke see what she was doing. She even went as far as covering the vanity with a sheet and hiding the hand mirror before pushing Hawke into a chair and turning her away from anything even vaguely reflective.

Then the pirate went to work. And it _was_ work; Hawke couldn’t _believe_ the amount of work. Isabela painted her face first—which Hawke protested violently, saying the bloody nobility of Kirkwall could take her as she was, or to the Void with the lot of them.

Isabela only smiled and held tight to her chin with one hand. “I’m only _enhancing_ , kitten. It’s just part of the costume. Trust me. Wear it like you’d wear armor. It’ll help.”

Hawke pulled a face and Isabela laughed, but she didn’t stop applying her blighted cosmetics.

And Andraste’s _arse_ , after the rouge and kohl and Maker’s-knows-what-else (Hawke was increasingly determined to scrub everything off her face the moment Isabela’s back was turned), came the _hair_. She’d never thought so much about her blighted hair in all her life. Had she been left to her own devices it would have gone up in the same simple bun she always wore, but Isabela was having none of that. The pirate actually smacked the back of Hawke’s head when she tried to pull away. Hard.

The hair took _forever_. Merrill appeared again with food—and the flowers—but Hawke was forced to eat without looking down, because Isabela was busy tugging and pinning—Maker the _pinning_ , the pinning was _endless_ —and arranging. In the end, Isabela decided on the Andraste’s Grace, with a rose or two, “For contrast,” she said musingly, “the red will look lovely with the dress.”

“You’ve _seen_ the dress?” Hawke protested. “How come _I_ haven’t seen the dress?”

“All in good time, sweet thing. All in good time.”

Merrill, at least, kept up a steady stream of chatter, valiantly trying to keep Hawke entertained… or at least distracted from whatever madness was being done to her by the pitiless pirate.

“I thought we were _friends_ , Isabela,” Hawke moaned after a particularly violent tug. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Isabela only laughed, reaching for another lock of hair.

“It looks very—” Merrill began, only to be shushed by Isabela.

“It’s a _surprise_ , kitten,” Isabela said. “Don’t go giving it away.”

“Oh,” said Merrill, blinking, “ _right_. A surprise. Just like—”

“ _Merrill!_ ”

The elf gasped and clapped her hands to her mouth.

“Just like?” Hawke asked, trying to tilt her head to level a stern look at Isabela. The pirate only shook her head and guided Hawke’s face forward again, her grip like iron. Isabela was rather terrifyingly strong. Hawke supposed it was from… battening hatches or trimming sails or whatever it was sailors did. “Just like _what_ , Isabela? _Merrill_?”

“I’m… I’m just going to see if… if Orana needs any help,” the elf squeaked, throwing a last look at Isabela (and most definitely _not_ looking at Hawke) before scurrying from the room.

“Just like what?” Hawke repeated.

“Oh, hold still. I’m almost finished.”

“Just in time for the dawn of a new Age.”

Isabela huffed a laugh. “I could be _sleeping_ right now, Hawke. Or drinking. Do show a little gratitude.”

Hawke snorted.

“Yes, be sure to do _that_ tonight,” Isabela opined. “Very ladylike. There. Now get your kit off and we’ll get you into the gorgeous thing Bodahn found you.”

“Maker’s breath, Isabela, I can _dress_ myself.”

“Not this dress.” Isabela rolled her shoulders in a languid shrug. “You could _try_ , of course. The results would be terribly amusing for all. But you might rip the silk and _then_ where would you be?”

Scowling, Hawke complied. She ignored Isabela’s mock lasciviousness as she stripped. The pirate strapped her into unholy undergarments (and Maker, she had no idea where all that _bosom_ came from) before saying, “Now close your eyes and do exactly what I tell you.”

“Is there any point arguing with you?”

Isabela grinned. “None whatsoever.”

So Hawke complied, letting Isabela dress her the exact bloody same way Bethany had once dressed her dolls. Arms lifted, lowered. “Step here, Hawke. Oh, wipe that grimace off your face.” 

Having seen nothing of the garment Isabela was so carefully buttoning and binding around her, she had to admit it certainly _felt_ lovely. Isabela laughed, giving Hawke’s rump a fond little pat, and said, “Open your eyes.”

Isabela had moved her so she stood before the uncovered mirror. At first Hawke didn’t recognize herself. The dress was the precise hue of the ribbon still tied around her wrist, deep and rich and red as the heart of a rose. It made her waist look tiny and her bosom—well. She supposed the mad underwear helped there, but the dress left very, very little to the imagination, all while remaining… beautiful. Tasteful. She was going to have to give Bodahn a raise. A large one. She ran one hand down the full skirts that swirled about her all the way to the floor, marveling at the softness of the silk under her fingers. The girl in the mirror blinked when Hawke blinked, and twirled when Hawke twirled, but she could not believe her eyes were that big, or her cheekbones so fine, or her lips so full. She leaned forward. The girl in the mirror leaned toward her.

“Maker’s _breath_ ,” she whispered. “Isabela. You’re _amazing_.”

“Don’t I know it,” Isabela replied, but the faintest blush rose in her cheeks. Then, deflecting, she said brusquely, “Well, I had a good canvas. Come on then. Let’s go show everybody how well you clean up.”

Hawke froze, her hand halfway to the doorknob. “Isabela. Just what do you mean by _everybody_? Is this what Merrill was hinting at?”

The pirate smirked. “Sweet thing, if you think we’d let you go into the dragon’s den without fortification, you’ve got another thing coming.” Isabela reached out and tweaked one of the tiny blossoms tucked behind Hawke’s ear, smiling at her handiwork. “If you don’t come to us, we come to you, kitten. That’s how it works.”

“Liquid courage?”

“My favorite of all the courages,” Isabela said. “Let’s go. I want to see your princely priest’s pretty eyes fall right out of his head.” With a gentle elbow to the ribs, the pirate added, “They will, you know. Enjoy yourself, Hawke. Try, at least. She’d have liked that.”

Before Isabela could pull away, Hawke turned and pulled the pirate into a tight embrace. “Thank you, Bela.”

Isabela returned the hug before extricating herself and shaking her head. Hawke saw the pleased smile the pirate hid behind the fall of her dark hair. “Enough of that. There’s a mug of liquor down there with my name all over it, and Maker knows this has been thirsty work.”


	8. Breathtaking

Maneuvering down the stairs in the vast froth of skirts gave new meaning to the word _challenge_ , especially considering the dainty little slippers Isabela had absolutely forced her to wear. (“But the dress goes all the way to the ground,” she protested to no avail, because Isabela was implacable when she put her mind to something. Like party-appropriate footwear, apparently. “No one will know if I’m wearing my boots underneath it!”) Holding a handful of fabric in one hand, she clutched the banister with the other and fixed her eyes on each stair before stepping onto it. She silently uttered more prayers in the minutes it took her to navigate her own stairwell than she’d done in the past year. Isabela laughed, but Hawke was indifferent to the mockery. Her life was at stake.

She nearly stumbled when she remembered how many stairs she would have to traverse at Viscount’s Keep. She hoped Sebastian’s vows wouldn’t extend to a prohibition on supportive arm-holding.

As she slid her toes onto the blessedly even ground at the base of the stairs, Hawke heard Isabela indelicately clear her throat, and she looked up. Evidently Sebastian had just arrived; he stood in the doorway opposite her. _Staring_. She stared back.

Like her, Sebastian had forgone armor in favor of finery. Unlike her, he looked as comfortable in his impeccably tailored clothing as he ever had in his mail and plate. The gold-embroidered white velvet of his doublet made his eyes look all the bluer, and she felt heat rising in her cheeks as her eyes—blighted traitorous eyes—skimmed the curve of shoulder to waist to thigh his clothing did nothing to hide and _everything_ to accentuate. Maker, Sebastian’s waist had to count as a sin somewhere. Her blush burned hotter, but she found she couldn’t look away.

This was _Prince_ Sebastian, Hawke realized. And though she’d known he existed—that the possibility of him existed—she’d never _met_ him before, not really. She had the strangest urge to _curtsey_ , and she found herself glad he’d be with her at the Keep. Maker, with him in the room, who would spare her a second glance? He _looked_ regal. The only thing lacking was an actual crown.

Behind her, Isabela snickered quietly, nudging her forward with a jab to the small of her back. Hawke stiffened, releasing the handful of skirt she was still gripping tightly in one hand. Sebastian bent in a polite bow. Hawke almost thought he was blushing, too. Then again, perhaps it was only the firelight.

Then Merrill came bounding into the hall, hands clasped at her breast as she admired Hawke’s transformation and Sebastian’s outfit. Varric sauntered out after her. Hawke could hear Aveline laughing in the other room, and Fenris’ low voice replying, though she couldn’t make out his words.

“Well, look at you, Choir Boy. I’m almost starting to believe this prince of Starkhaven tale you’ve been feeding us.”

Sebastian glanced at Hawke, and she was surprised to see confusion writ large across his features. 

“Weren’t you the one who told them?”

He shook his head, bafflement still playing about his brow. “I… I didn’t know how much you wanted told. Varric did say you wanted me to arrive early—”

“And here you are, right on time,” Varric said on a chuckle. “Hawke, really? You think something like _this_ slips past my notice? Merchant guild, remember? Where else was Bodahn going to find a dress on such short notice? Now come on. The gang’s all here, and I’ve brought a disgustingly good bottle of booze.”

Hawke blinked rapidly in an attempt to keep sudden tears from falling. 

“Oh no,” Isabela chided. “Absolutely _not_. We don’t have time to redo things now.”

The tears turned into a laugh instead. “Thank you, Isabela. Varric.”

The dwarf winked. “It’s a good dress.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “Not just the dress, and you know it.”

“Least I can do, Hawke,” he said, waving dismissively. Then he grinned. “It’s good to have friends in high places who owe you a favor or two.”

“Or fifty,” she agreed. “And counting.”

The others moved into her library, laughing, but she and Sebastian remained a moment longer in the hall. “Thank you, too,” she said. “I won’t be half so nervous with you there. You, uh…” She paused, lost for words. Eventually she settled on, “Your clothes are… nice.”

He was still _looking_ at her, with his unnervingly blue gaze. “You look—”

Ducking her head, she resisted the urge to scuff her slippered toes against the stone. “Not very much like myself.”

“Breathtaking,” he finished. “And in every way like yourself.”

#

Hawke had to hand it to Varric; the impromptu party—and the glass of very good wine—had been precisely what she needed. Perhaps she couldn’t take her entire bevy of companions to Viscount’s Keep to keep her company and back her up, but sitting with them, drinking with them, listening to the cadence of their voices rising and falling, was so reassuringly familiar she couldn’t help feeling relaxed. Even when Bodahn reminded her of the time, she only smiled and rose, without feeling tormented by the terrible nerves that had plagued her since the invitation had first arrived.

“Knock ‘em dead, kid,” Varric said.

“Not literally, though,” Merrill added, eyes wide over her cup.

Aveline, who’d not touched a drop, got to her feet and tapped Merrill lightly on the top of her head. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t get in any trouble.”

“No trouble planned. Dinner. Dancing.” Hawke wiggled her fingers vaguely. “ _Presenting_. Whatever that means.”

Thanking her friends once again as they left, laughing and intending to carry on the party at The Hanged Man (she rather wished she could join them), she stepped into the vestibule to fetch her cloak, only to be interrupted by Orana. “I was told ‘Under no circumstances is she to wear that ratty old thing,’ Mistress,” the elf said, extending a fall of red-silk-lined black velvet. Hawke snorted lightly, wrapping the fabric around her shoulders and fastening the clasp. Orana still hovered, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

“Is something the matter, Orana?”

The elf jumped, startled, even though Hawke had made no sharp movements, and her words were spoken softly. “No, Mistress. Only… only I… I found this in the library earlier, and I… here, Mistress.” Orana extended her hand. It held a folded sheaf of parchment. “I—I can’t read, so I… I didn’t pry. I… not that I’d have pried even if I _could_ read, of course. But I—I didn’t want it to get lost. You’ve been spending so much time reading. I thought it might be important.”

Hawke nodded, accepting the letter. Flipping it over, she recognized her father’s hand, though she didn’t think it was a letter she’d read. It was addressed simply to _My Love_ , but the script was faint and shaky.

Hawke’s own hand began to shake in response; she couldn’t have said why. Glancing up at Orana, she said, “Could you ask Sebastian to wait? I just… I’ll be right out.”

The maid nodded and curtsied—it was a habit Hawke was trying to break her of; she was no magister to be obeyed and revered—before leaving Hawke alone with the letter.

 

_Dearest, dearest Leandra,_

_Do you remember, love, all those months in Kirkwall so long ago? All those letters we hid in the chantry? The ones Maurevar passed back and forth for us? I have mine, still. Everywhere we’ve gone, every time we’ve run, and I still have those letters. You’ll find them later, I suppose. After. I hope they bring you a measure of joy, and not yet more sorrow. They have always been a joy to me. As their scribe has been._

_This is the last letter I will ever write you, dearest. I know you’ve been unwilling to see, unwilling to believe what I’ve known these past months, but my end is drawing near. Don’t be sad, dear heart. We have been so blessed, you and I. More blessed than I could ever have dreamed. For, oh, how I’ve_ loved _. Loved and_ been _loved. If ever proof was needed that the Maker yet cares for His children, I suppose it can be found in the depth of love like ours._

_I am strangely glad to know my death is upon me; so many times I might have been taken without a chance to say goodbye. I’m relieved it won’t be sudden, won’t be a templar on a mission or a bandit in the dark. Much as it pains me, and much as it pains you, I am glad I get to say farewell. I’m not frightened, love. It is only the next adventure, after all. We are no strangers to adventure, you and I. I’ll prepare the way, shall I? And meet you when your time comes? I hope it will be a very long time from now. Give a lad a chance to set himself up properly, won’t you?_

_Grieve, my dearest, but do not wish to be with me before your time. Wait until Carver convinces some village girl to marry him. Wait until Marian gives you a fat grandchild to bounce on your knee. If Bethany should—oh, love. Give Beth the best chance to have all we had, won’t you? Keep her safe._

_Oh, Leandra. I’m glad you won’t be alone._

_I am cold now, so cold, and growing tired. My time is nearly come. Weep if you must, my dear one, but don’t stop living. Don’t ever stop living. Think how many stories you’ll have to tell me. I promise I shall look forward to hearing them all._

_I suppose all men take a few regrets with them, but know this: for all the hardship, for all the struggle, loving you was my life’s work, and I could not be prouder of it._

_Yours. Now. Forever._

_M_

 

She didn’t want to cry. Maker, Isabela would have her head if she cried. Still, Hawke bowed her head over her father’s last letter, clasping it so tightly to her breast she could feel her own heartbeat against her hands. Surely one or two tears couldn’t destroy all Isabela had done.

“Hawke?”

Sebastian hovered in the doorway, and though shadow hid his expression, she could read concern in the tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders. For some inexplicable reason the sight of him nearly sent her to tears again, and it took every effort to swallow past the tightness in her throat. _I know him well enough to read his emotions in the lines of his body,_ she thought, _and I’ve never once told him the truth._

And yet, when she spoke, it was only to apologize. “I’m ready,” she said, hating the way her voice broke on the final syllable. 

He stepped nearer, glancing down at the letter. “Bad news?”

“No,” she said. “No, not at all.” She folded the paper, tucking it into the bodice of her dress (though there was scarcely _room_ , given the insane corset Isabela had forced her into). Sebastian averted his eyes, but as she moved past him, he reached out and touched the back of her hand with feather-light fingertips.

“Wait,” he said. She turned to face him, raising querying eyebrows. He smiled softly, sadly, and tilted her face up with one finger crooked under her chin. Her breath caught. Her eyes were on a level with his mouth, and as she watched, he took his full bottom lip between his teeth. His brow furrowed thoughtfully.

Then he dabbed at her cheeks with his handkerchief. “There,” he said. “Good as new.”

She wished it were true. She wished it were true in a way that had nothing to do with cosmetics. “We’re going to be late.”

“Allow me to tell you something about the nobility,” he replied, dropping his hands back to his sides. She could still smell the faint scent of cedar and resin and something indefinably _Sebastian_ that clung to his handkerchief. “Early and late are fluid terms. The occasion is being held in your honor; therefore, it doesn’t begin until you arrive. Those who arrive before you are unfashionably early; those who arrive later are shamefully tardy.”

His words made her giggle. “So you’re the _only_ one who gets to arrive precisely on time?”

If pressed, she would have had to classify his smile as a _smirk_. 

#

Hawke was no stranger to Viscount’s Keep, but usually her calls consisted of visiting Aveline in the barracks or the occasional foray past a disapproving Seneschal Bran to speak with the Viscount in his office. Even after she’d returned Saemus (she still wasn’t certain _help_ was the right term), she’d always felt merely _tolerated_. She’d certainly never been greeted by a bevy of servants—one to take her cloak, one to offer her wine, one to see if she required anything else. She had to stop herself from looking over her shoulder to make certain they weren’t speaking to someone else. Someone _important._

She and Sebastian were taken to the Viscount immediately (she saw Bran scowling off to the side and stopped herself from pulling a face at him), and then she learned the meaning of _presentation_. One by one, she was introduced to the nobility of Kirkwall. Some she knew (though why they pretended not to know _her_ was beyond comprehension) and some she didn’t. Some spoke of the weather, while others attempted to draw her into more serious conversations: about Meredith, about the qunari, about the Blight. Everyone offered condolences, and though the first few struck her and nearly brought tears to her eyes again, after the fifth, tenth, twentieth exchange, the words became only that—words. She found herself able to accept them with grace and a smile, and without the constant threat of tears.

If she remembered one name out of ten later, she’d count herself lucky.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Sebastian. It was fascinating. She’d never seen anything _like_ it. While she blinked and stuttered and said things like, “Yes, it has been remarkably sunny, hasn’t it?” he guided conversations, spoke only of things he wished to speak of, and still managed to make nearly everyone he talked to smile or laugh.

During one of the brief lulls, he swept her aside, pressing another goblet of fine wine into her hands. “Can you teach me how to do that?” she asked, only half-jesting. On his raised eyebrow, she explained, “ _Talk_ to people. So _easily_.”

“Practice,” he said, sounding weary. “That’s another thing about nobility, Hawke: all they do is talk. Mostly about foolish things.”

“They could do good things, though. With all that power. And all that talk.”

“They could,” he agreed. “They could. But they so rarely do.”

She wondered, just a little, if she might _change_ that—at least for her part—but she kept the words to herself, and held them close, like a promise.

#

Hawke was not a dancer. It had always driven her mother a little mad. “How can you be so graceful with those knives,” she’d said despairingly, “and so clumsy as soon as you’re on the dancefloor?”

“I expect,” Hawke had always retorted, stumbling over her own feet, “it has a great deal to do with my lack of desire to let someone else _lead_.”

After picking at a delicious dinner she didn’t have the stomach to eat, Hawke knew she’d be expected to dance. Worse, she’d be expected to dance with strangers. When the Viscount came to claim the first set, she drank down the rest of her wine and put her hand in his. He looked distracted, but his smile was kind.

“How is Saemus?” she asked, searching for small talk as they took their place at the head of the dance.

Unfortunately her question only made Dumar look grimmer. “You noted his absence.”

She hadn’t, actually. _Foot, meet mouth._

“My son keeps to himself a great deal these days, I’m afraid. He sends salutations. And congratulations.”

Dumar led masterfully, and still she stepped on his toes half a dozen times. Another good reason for leaving the boots at home, she supposed. At least the slippers had a lighter tread. She’d have to thank Isabela for the foresight later. If the Viscount noticed—or was in pain—nothing of it showed on his face, and he kept up a steady stream of light conversation as they moved through the figures. From Dumar she was passed to the Comte de Launcet, and from the Comte to one of the noblemen she’d been introduced to earlier, but whose name eluded her entirely. The latter winced every time she trod on him, and soon their dance degenerated into a farce of her apologizing and him flinching away from her, declaring the apologies unnecessary.

After a few more tortuous turns about the dancefloor in the arms of various men whose faces and names were beginning to blur, her dance was interrupted by Sebastian tapping her partner on the shoulder. “I wonder,” he said to the man—Martin? Marcus? Maferath?—“if I might claim my right as escort.”

The man—Marcel?—stepped away from her with alarming alacrity. “Certainly,” he said, without attempting to disguise his relief.

“I apologize in advance,” she whispered. “To you and your feet.”

“You lead,” Sebastian offered. “I daresay it will go easier for both of us.”

“I can’t!”

He shifted the positions of their hands until she was in the leader’s position. “Do you trust me, Hawke?”

 _Yes,_ she wanted to say, _but if you keep looking at me like that you should absolutely_ not _trust me._

She nodded weakly.

“You lead.”

“But it’s not…”

He laughed. “What? Proper?” Leaning close, until his (blighted, sodding, Maker-forsaken!) lips were nearly brushing her ear, he whispered, “What did I tell you earlier, Hawke? It’s _your_ party. Do what you like, hold your head high, and others will assume you are doing what you’re doing because it is the right thing to do. Half the ladies in the room will be stumbling around attempting to lead their partners by the end of the evening if you but do so first.”

So she led.

And did not step on Sebastian’s feet once.

Even though he was an endless source of distraction. Maker, he smelled good. And his hand felt _right_ in hers. He smiled and laughed, his eyes bloody _twinkling_ , and for all that he was in the awkward position of _not_ leading, he did not falter or miss a single step. She let herself smile and laugh with him. She let herself imagine this was not a strange little interlude destined to end when the party did. For the space of a dance, she allowed herself to pretend he belonged to her and not to Andraste. Sod her anyway. She had the _Maker_.

Who did _she_ have?

No one.

She stumbled. Sebastian caught her, one arm tight around her waist.

“That’s it, then,” he said. “You’ve gone sad again.”

“No,” she lied, “I’m only tired.”

He drew her aside, shielding her from the rest of the dancing couples. “You are a terrible liar.”

She chuckled mirthlessly. “No, Sebastian. I’m superlative.”

“Hawke—”

“I’ve been lying to you for ages, haven’t I? And you believe me. When I call you _friend_. When I pretend that’s all I want from you? When I pretend that’s all you are to me?”

“No,” he said, voice low and rough; his accent strangely strong. “I _don’t_ believe you.”

And then he bent his head, and kissed her.


	9. Life's Work

While Hawke’s mind was occupied with the startled thought _Maker’s breath, Sebastian’s kissing me! Sebastian Vael’s lips are touching my lips!_ her body took full advantage. She looped one arm tight around his waist. Her other hand reached up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him nearer, deepening the kiss. The party in full swing around them—the potential audience—was forgotten, lost to the feel of Sebastian’s hands on her waist, the warmth of his body, the insistence of his lips.

_Don’t end._

And for a moment or a minute or an hour, it didn’t. Almost long enough for her to believe it would go on forever, almost long enough for her to believe this, too, wasn’t part of the strange interlude borne of wine and dancing and playing dress-up.

She felt him begin to pull away a moment before his lips left hers, and she averted her eyes, not wanting to see the inevitable rejection, the guilt, the regret. Before her hands could fall back to her sides, however, he caught one and held it between both of his, pressing it to his chest. His heart thudded beneath her palm. Not untouched, then. Somehow this made her feel sad and reassured all at the same time. Whatever had happened—whatever their moment of madness had been—he’d been as affected by it as she.

“Hawke.”

This time the prickle of tears had nothing whatsoever to do with her mother, her father, their letters, their loss. She held her breath, as though it might stop her from _feeling_. She’d wanted this for… for a long time. A very long time. Almost as long as she’d _known him._ And now it would be taken away. And she’d _know_. She’d know precisely what she was missing. She’d know precisely what could never be hers.

It was too much. It was too much. All around them, couples were still dancing. Cheery music—too cheery—played on. A woman laughed. Friends called to one another. The room was bright and alive and merry, and she wanted nothing more than to be elsewhere.

“ _Marian_ , please. Look at me.”

Releasing her held breath slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his. He looked… concerned. Troubled, even. But not guilty. And if he was about to reject her, she could see no sign of it on his features. Indeed, one hand rose to cradle her cheek, and cradling her cheek wasn’t like _pulling away_ at all. “Forgive me,” he said.

 _Forgive me_ was a bit like pulling away, no matter how steadily he regarded her, no matter how steady his hand felt against her cheek.

Maker take the way her voice wavered. “For kissing me?”

His brow furrowed and he shook his head. “No. Perhaps I should ask your forgiveness for that as well, but I cannot regret it. You’re _grieving_ , Hawke, and I… took advantage.”

She blinked and her lips parted, but it took several tries before her thoughts formed actual words, and until those words became actual sound. “You… _aren’t_ sorry for kissing me?”

Sebastian glanced heavenward for a moment, but a faint smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “How could I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Every other time I’ve even _hinted_ at… feelings that could conceivably lead to kissing, you told me you had to pray. A lot.”

His chuckle was little more than a breath. “And I did. A lot.”

“And?”

“Do you really want to talk about this here?”

“Not particularly,” she admitted, already certain gossip about the new Lady of House Amell and the Priest-Prince of Starkhaven would be the talk in every drawing room of Kirkwall by the morrow, “but what choice do we—oh. If it’s my party, does that mean it’s over when I decide to leave?”

The expression in his eyes was incomparably, painfully tender, and she thought he might kiss her again. Instead he only smiled. “You’re learning.”

Half afraid he’d disappear if she gave him the opportunity, Hawke rushed through her farewells. The Viscount looked startled (and a little disappointed, she thought) but did not try to keep her. When Hawke paused to say goodbye to Aveline, the guard-captain nodded before fixing Sebastian with a dour look.

“I have two good eyes in my head, Vael,” she said. “And I know where you live.”

Sebastian bowed, ever so slightly, his expression revealing nothing. Hawke hissed, “ _Aveline_!” in a scandalized tone, but the guard-captain only shook her head, green glare never leaving Sebastian’s face.

As servants retrieved their cloaks, Hawke said, “She’s protective. She didn’t mean that.”

“Aye, she did,” he returned. “And I don’t fault her for it.”

They walked in silence back to her estate. She almost feared he’d leave as soon as she was safely home, but when she offered a glass of wine (conversation implied), he accepted without hesitation. If Bodahn was surprised to see them returned so early, he made no mention of it, taking their cloaks and offering to bring up a bottle from the cellars.

Then, once they were settled in her library in chairs facing each other near the fire, wine in hand, Hawke asked, “What _was_ that, Sebastian?”

His intake of breath was audible. He gazed a moment longer into the fire, toying with the stem of his wine glass, before turning the full weight of his gaze on her. She held it. “You _are_ a poor liar, Hawke,” he said. “I am not.”

Hawke waited for him to explain—it seemed the kind of statement _requiring_ further elucidation—but Sebastian remained silent, lowering his gaze to stare into the depths of his wine glass as though he expected to find answers there. One agonizing minute passed, followed by another.

“Sebastian,” she said, trying for lightness, “you may need to clarify.”

Her admittedly poor attempt at mirth brought no smile to his face. He merely turned his gaze from the wine glass to the fire, and she could _see_ the battle raging behind his eyes for all she had no idea what sides were fighting, or which might emerge the victor.

“I swore vows before the Maker.”

“I am aware—”

Sebastian shook his head once, the motion so graceless and jerky and unlike him Hawke swallowed her words. “And then I broke those vows,” he said. “I couldn’t avenge my family from behind the chantry’s safe, peaceful walls. The Grand Cleric is right. I let myself be blown about. I thought… I thought I had found purpose in the Chantry’s work. Not the purpose I might once have chosen for myself, certainly, but purpose nonetheless. The ease with which I walked away proves how little I valued it.”

Hawke worried the ends of the ribbon tied around her wrist. “And you… I’m sorry, how does any of this make you a liar?”

“I let you believe my vows still held me. I let you believe friendship was all I… all I felt, all I desired of you.”

_Keep it together, Hawke._

“And… it… isn’t?”

Sebastian smiled faintly, but his brow was still furrowed and his gaze still slid past hers. “I am not in the habit of kissing friends.”

Hawke set aside her own wine glass. Her hands trembled. She folded them tightly and settled them in her lap. “And your vows?”

Sebastian shook his head again, but this was a gentler gesture, almost regretful. “The Grand Cleric knows me better than I know myself, I think. She would not let me return to the Chantry—not in the capacity I occupied before, in any case. I think she suspected my feelings for you before I knew them myself. Or, rather, before I let myself admit they might extend beyond friendship.”

Hawke wanted to blame the fire for the heat in her cheeks, wanted to blame the wine for the way her head spun, wanted to blame too much small talk for the tightness in her throat. To do either would be lying. And she’d had quite enough of lying. “Sebastian…”

“I’m not _worthy_ of you, Hawke. I have spent my life doing what I wished when I wished it and dodging the consequences. I’ve turned from every purpose the Maker has set before me.”

She thought of her parents, unwilling to let fate destroy the happiness they’d carved out for themselves. They’d risked everything, time and time again. Closing her eyes, she raised her hand to touch the bodice of her dress. She could feel her father’s last letter still safe against her heart. _For all the hardship, for all the struggle, loving you was my life’s work, and I could not be prouder of it._ “And you think you’ll… what? Turn from me, too?”

Sebastian flinched, turning his face as though her words had reached out and slapped him. “No,” he whispered. “Not that. Never that. You are… you are family to me. More than any other I’ve known. But I can offer you nothing, Hawke. Starkhaven may be beyond my reach. I am an oathbreaker and a rash fool and—”

“And I _love_ you,” she interjected. At any other time she might have marveled at how utterly her words silenced him. “For what it’s worth. If you’d bothered to _ask_ , Sebastian, I’d have told you how very, very little all the rest matters to me.” Rising from her chair, she crossed the short distance between them, bending at the waist to cup one cheek in her hand, echoing his earlier gesture. “My father was an apostate mage. He was a good man. A great man. But in the eyes of the world he was nothing. He was _worse_ than nothing. My mother left a life of ease and comfort to follow him from one end of Thedas to the other. She loved him that much. And the truth is, I love you enough to want you to be happy. Do you understand? If that means I must help you retake Starkhaven, I’ll do it. If it means standing chastely at your side while you serve the Maker, I’d do that, too. Perhaps it isn’t easy and it isn’t pretty and it isn’t like the stories Varric writes, but love is love. It’s rare. It’s worth fighting for. And if it’s not a gift from the Maker, I don’t know what is.”

Sebastian brought his hand up to cover hers, where it still rested against his cheek. Then, slowly, so slowly she could have pulled away at any time had she desired it, he turned his head and pressed a kiss into her palm. Hawke shivered at the contact, feeling his smile and the soft breath of his laughter against her skin. Such a small gesture: a hand, a kiss, a captured breath, and yet it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

It was, perhaps, the most intimate moment she had ever shared with anyone.

Turning his head again, still smiling, he met her gaze. “Marian,” he said, his accent doing _positively sinful_ things to the letter ‘r’. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d used her given name in all the time they’d known one another, but _this_ time, spoken in _this_ voice was something altogether different. It sent her imagination off of any number of heated little tangents imagining what other things a tongue that could roll ‘r’s so beautifully might do.

She’d always thought his eyes cool, the blue bordering on icy, but she saw nothing cold in them now; they were all heat and passion and _intensity_. The intensity sent her imagination on yet another wildly creative tangent, and this time she did not quite manage to swallow the gasp such thoughts brought to her lips. 

Without breaking eye contact, he rose.

They were standing _very_ close together. Closer even than when they’d danced. Her hand was still clasped in Sebastian’s, and the proximity, that slight touch, was enough to send her heart racing while flocks of agitated butterflies darted around in her stomach, trying valiantly to keep up. “My heart is yours,” he said. “I am afraid I know how little currency a promise from me holds—” Here she attempted to interrupt, to disagree, but he squeezed her hand and raised the other to briefly press a gentle finger to her lips, continuing, “I will endeavor to be worthy of the words you’ve given me. And though my own words feel inadequate to the task, I will aspire to convey my own love as best I can. For you are dear to me, Marian Hawke, dearer than I ever thought possible. I hope to spend the rest of my life showing you how dear.”

This time, _she_ kissed _him_. Rising onto her toes, she brought her lips gently, almost chastely, to his. It took so little effort. And it took even less effort for the chasteness to disappear entirely. Sebastian parted his lips, deepening the kiss, and when his tongue darted out to taste her, she gave an involuntarily little moan deep in her throat. He chuckled, drawing back just far enough—an inch, two—to look her in the eyes. “Hawke—”

“Marian,” she corrected.

He laughed again. “Old habits. _Marian_. I would… I would say this is all rather sudden and I should go, except we’ve been dancing around it for ages, and—”

Wrapping her arms around him in a mimicry of the positions they’d held while dancing, she said, “You wanted to let me lead? Let me lead.” Tilting her head, she regarded him evenly. “Unless you don’t want—”

Standing so near, she felt the way his breath caught. He brought his forehead to rest against hers. “Maker have mercy, Marian. I want _you_.”

Wriggling her hips against him, she was gratified to feel precisely _how much_ he desired her. “Then, Sebastian Vael,” she whispered, “may I have this dance?”

“This, and every one hereafter,” he replied, emotion roughening his accent. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

#

Sebastian, Hawke found in short order, had _very_ talented lips. For all Isabela’s teasing and Sebastian’s hinting at the life he’d once lived outside the chantry’s walls, she’d never quite believed it. She wasn’t without experience, but having spent most of her life protecting an apostate sister had limited how much and how often that experience was augmented. 

And meeting a certain individual some time back had thrown a complete halt on increasing that experience altogether.

It had been a _very long time_. The heady combination of kissing after a long drought and kissing the very individual she’d been certain she’d never be kissing at all was intoxicating. So intoxicating she almost—almost, but not quite—forgot they were still very much in a public part of the house.

“Sebastian,” she whispered, pulling away sightly. “We’re in the _library_.”

He chuckled. “So we are.”

“I… don’t particularly _want_ to be in the library. Sandal… wanders.”

He ran the backs of his fingers gently over the curve of her cheek, and she was near enough to see the brief flicker of _something_ in his eyes. Not regret, thank the Maker. Not even uncertainty. It almost looked like _fear_.

Reaching up, she took his hand, twining her fingers with his. “Come with me,” she said softly. He nodded, but the look didn’t entirely disappear.

Her heart thudded as she guided him up the stairs, but Hawke had never felt more certain of anything in her life. She sent a sideways glance at the closed door of her mother’s bedroom. She felt the faintest pang of sorrow, but it was swiftly replaced by the certainty her mother would be _pleased_ to see her so happy.

Orana had already been in to light the fire, so Hawke’s chamber was warm and cozy (and, thank the Maker, Sandal knew better than to barge in _here_ ). Once they were inside, she nudged the door shut with her foot, and turned to face Sebastian.

“Tell me,” she said.

His answering smile was crooked, and did not completely distract from the look in his eyes. “You know I—when I was younger—” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Mostly it was meaningless. Amusement. Something to pass the time. This is… not that. And I wouldn’t want it to be. But I find myself…”

“Nervous?”

This startled a brief laugh from him. “Nervous,” he agreed.

She squeezed his hand. “Then you find yourself in excellent company.” Shrugging, she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. “It’s just us, Sebastian. I… I want this. And I want you. But if you want to wait—”

“No,” he said, the fear gone. “I only wanted to be certain you—”

“I’m certain.” Cupping the back of his neck and pressing another, more insistent, kiss to his lips, she said, “I’m _certain_. I’ve never been more certain about anything in my entire life.”

He closed his eyes briefly. When he looked at her again, the fear was gone. The nerves were gone. And he was looking at her in a way she’d never, ever been looked at before. _Oh_ , she thought, _oh, Maker._

Sebastian trailed his fingertips lightly down the side of her neck and along the neckline of her dress, agonizingly slow. He followed the movement of his fingers until he was standing behind her. His hands went to the mess of buttons and laces and Maker-knew-what-else. “Oh,” she gasped, “I… I forgot. I’ll never get myself out of this thing. Bloody Isabela.”

She felt Sebastian’s warm breath at her ear a moment before he murmured, “I daresay I’m capable of managing, Marian.”

Not only was he capable of _managing_ , he was capable of doing more than one thing at a time. While his fingers—and _Maker_ he had nimble fingers—made short work of the bindings of her gown, his lips followed in their wake, peppering kisses to the curve of her neck, to her bare shoulder, to each inch of flesh revealed by the undone buttons.

When the gown was loose enough, he let it fall to the ground, a puddle of silk around her ankles. She smirked over her shoulder and found Sebastian regarding her with such undisguised desire it made her breath catch. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” she whispered, reaching for the fastenings of his doublet. He murmured something under his breath that might have been a prayer before catching her up in his arms and crossing the room to her bed.

Hawke had seen Sebastian in various states of undress, but as those occasions had generally gone hand in hand with the concern of making certain he wasn’t about to bleed out after taking a bad blow, _lust_ had hardly been the prevailing emotion. Now, however, curled on her side, watching as he shrugged out of his doublet and began unfastening the mother-of-pearl buttons of the shirt beneath, she was free simply to admire.

And admire she _did_. Sebastian was all lean muscle, nothing bulky, nothing extraneous; broad shoulders tapering to a sinfully fine waist. She longed to run her fingers through the whorls of reddish-brown hair dusting his chest. When the shirt fell to the floor, she couldn’t help the little murmur of approval that fell from her lips. Sebastian blushed, but the smirk he leveled her way was anything but bashful.

“Come _here_ ,” she demanded.

“Your servant, messere,” he replied, and _oh, Maker_ it was brutally unfair his bloody ‘r’s could so utterly destroy her. “Was there something in particular my lady desired?”

 _Keep talking. Whatever you do, keep talking,_ was what she wanted to say. Instead, she sat up and knelt on the bed opposite him, reaching out to run her nails ever so softly down his chest. The hair was as soft as she’d imagined it would be, and his low groan _divine_. It took only the slightest pressure to send him to his back, and then she let her lips follow the trail her fingers had already taken. He nearly jumped when her tongue flicked out against one nipple, his hands jerking to her waist. Repeating the experiment didn’t result in the same violent reaction, but he uttered the most delicious groan as his head lolled backward. Giggling, Hawke hooked her leg over his hip to straddle him, nuzzling a line of kisses from the hollow of his throat to the soft skin just below his ear.

His hands slipped up, away from her waist, and blindly began loosening the ties of the monstrous underclothing Isabela had forced her into. “Orlesians,” he whispered. “Always making things lovely to look at and a pain to get _into_.”

Pain or not, he made quick work of it. She gasped when her breasts spilled free, nerves singing as flesh touched flesh for the first time. 

Her father’s letter fell from its hiding place, and almost reverently Sebastian lifted it and reached out, settling it on the bedside table. _For all the hardship, for all the struggle, loving you was my life’s work, and I could not be prouder of it._ Then he pushed himself up on his elbows, just high enough to press a kiss to her jaw. Smiling, she tapped him lightly on the end of his nose with a fingertip, and then nudged him flat again. He submitted with a chuckle, gazing up at her from beneath his dark lashes. Tenderly, almost tentatively, he reached up to cup her breasts in his hands, skimming his thumbs along her sensitive nipples. Closing her eyes, she sat back. Even though his breeches and her silk smalls separated them, she felt him twitch and she gave an experimental little twist of her hips.

Sebastian muttered something _almost_ like a curse, and a moment later she found herself expertly flipped, their roles reversed. Her breath caught at the intensity of his gaze; he looked as if he meant to _devour_ her. (And, oh, her imagination enjoyed _that_ tangent…) He waited a moment, straddling her but not holding her in place, as if to make certain she was comfortable with the change. Thoughtful, for someone who’d just executed a move she’d last seen in the midst of a battle, when he was pinned beneath a slaver intent to kill him.

 _Ah,_ she thought, laughing breathlessly, _it’s always so easy to forget he’s a_ rogue.

Smiling, she wriggled her hips again, just to hear the moan it elicited. This time the sound he murmured was her name, and as he ran his hands the length of her body, she found she did not mind the switch at all. Arching under his warm hands, she brought herself once more in close contact.

The breeches really had to go. Nothing more to it.

“I thought,” she gasped, as his nimble fingers proved their dexterousness by freeing her of the last scrap of silk she wore, “ _I_ was leading.”

“If you kept doing what you were doing,” he growled, “it was going to be a _very short dance_.” 

Hawke didn’t know if it was all the years spent in prayer and meditation, waiting to hear the voice of a god who’d long-since turned His back on His creation, but Sebastian was a patient man. An obnoxiously patient man, Hawke thought, given their current situation and her own marked _impatience_. 

He was also creative. No matter what Hawke thought he might do next, it wasn’t what she expected. And he was _dedicated_. He seemed intent on feeling out every inch of her body with lips and fingertips, with the palms of his hands and the flat of his tongue, as if he were memorizing her. And yet he didn’t attend to any of the places she’d beg him to visit, if only she weren’t so breathless, if only she weren’t so dizzy from the heady intoxication of skin on skin. Nerves she hadn’t known existed thrummed under his touch. 

“Maker’s balls,” she managed, hardly recognizing the sound of her own voice, “Sebastian…”

He leaned forward to kiss her temple, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth. When she blinked dazedly at him, she was surprised to see his expression almost _sheepish_. “I have a confession to make,” he whispered. “I—I’m mapping out all the places I’ve dreamt of touching, of kissing, of _loving_. You are… Marian, you are _exquisite_.”

Hawke had been called any number of things over the course of her life, many far from flattering, but _exquisite_ was something entirely new. Fresh heat bloomed in her cheeks, and she brought her hand up to cradle Sebastian’s neck, kissing him deeply.

“A-as you were, then,” she murmured when at last she pulled away. She was gratified that he, too, looked as drunk as she felt, though neither of them had overindulged on anything stronger than kisses.

Sebastian tasted her clavicle, the hollow of her throat, the inside of her wrist, all while his fingers drew complicated patterns on her waist, her hips, the outside of her thigh. He kissed the mole on her hip, the faint freckles across the swell of her breasts; every scar, every mark, every blemish left by time and hardship. She whimpered when he discovered the sensitivity of the soft skin behind her knee, and cried out when at last he lowered his talented tongue to the place she wanted it most.

She felt him smile against her— _smirking_ , she thought, _he’s probably bloody smirking_ )—and then he hummed as he splayed one hand across the quivering muscles of her belly, while the other joined the very, very acceptable work his tongue was already doing.

Mostly Hawke stopped thinking then. It was only sensation: the feel of his deft fingers and talented tongue, his warmth and his breath against her, the slow build of heat and the sudden spark of fire to tinder that undid her, crying his name. He rode out the waves of her release, and then pressed a kiss to the inside of her leg before resting his head on her thigh. She ran trembling fingers through his hair, and he tilted his head to smile up at her.

“Proud of yourself, are you?” she asked. His laugh was soft and a little breathless, and something about the unguarded _openness_ in his gaze made her throat tight. _I see you,_ she thought, blinking back tears. _Oh, Sebastian. I_ see _you._ “Come here.”

He obliged and she kissed him softly, gently. She wasn’t quite as patient—or, she feared, as dedicated—but she allowed her hands to roam, discovering him as he’d done her. He had ticklish ribs, which made him twist violently away from her questing fingers. She laughed; she couldn’t help it. Divesting him of the remainder of his clothing, she pressed a kiss to his hipbone before flicking her tongue out to taste and tease the tip of him. He groaned her name, and muttered a warning about _just how long_ it had been. She hooked her leg over to straddle him once again, but this time her aim was not to tease. He gasped as she began to lower herself onto him, inch by inch, and his eyes fluttered open. Again and again he murmured her name, with at least as much reverence as she’d ever heard him speak of the Maker. What started slow and measured and gentle soon took on a life of its own, hands and heat and teeth and tongues, primal and beautiful; one of the oldest dances in the history of the world.

As Sebastian had warned, it mightn’t have been a very long dance, but it was certainly a worthwhile one, and it was one Hawke looked forward to repeating again and again—as long as she was able and as long as he was willing.

Afterward, she curled up beside him with her head pillowed on his chest, listening to the reassuring thump of his heartbeat beneath her cheek while he toyed with her hair. It had come almost entirely undone, and the scent of the fallen, crushed blossoms surrounded them. 

“I think,” she said softly, one hand splayed on his chest, reveling in the warmth and comfort of his skin on hers, “I think this is _home_ , Sebastian. I think this is what people mean when they talk about home. I… I think maybe that’s why my parents were so happy. They… they knew about _home_.”

She unwound the red ribbon from her wrist, and very gently tied it around his while he watched with something like wonderment in his gaze. He held her tight, tight and safe in the circle of his arms, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She heard the faintest echo of tears in his voice when he asked, “I believe you’re right. I… will you tell me about them, love?”

“I will,” she said.

And she did.


End file.
